


my kingdom for your graces

by MinilocIsland



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Made-up Historical Times, Mentions of War and Violence (nothing too graphic), Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinilocIsland/pseuds/MinilocIsland
Summary: Ever since he was a child, Even has learnt to fear and hate his family's mortal enemies. Has been trained to fight, to defeat and destroy them.But when he finally faces Prince Isak of Bergheim on the battlefield, nothing happens the way he'd expected it to.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 667
Kudos: 629





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, after months of talking about this fic I've gotten myself together and finished it – finally!  
> This is more AU and more plotty than anything I've ever written, but you'll probably still recognize the usual mix of pining, feelings and sappy smut, haha.
> 
> If you think you've read this short prologue before, you're absolutely right – it's been published on Tumblr (and as part of my Tumblr prompts collection) – but I just couldn't stop thinking about this universe, so here we are, haha. 
> 
> This whole fic is more or less finished, just some editing left, and will be around 55k in total: this prologue, 10 longer chapters and an epilogue. I'll be posting the first proper chapter in a couple of days, and then a new chapter weekly :) 
> 
> A massive thanks to the lovely [colazitron](https://fille-lioncelle.tumblr.com) and [Ghostcat](https://ghostcat3000.tumblr.com) for looking this over for me and making it so much better. You're the best.
> 
> And, to my darling beloved fic wife [Treehouse](https://modestytreehouse.tumblr.com), for all your great suggestions, for always holding my hand, giving me all of your love and support and never letting me give up. <3
> 
> Last but not least, a shoutout to the awesome [Maugurt](https://maugurt.tumblr.com) who misread the prompt "You have my word" as "You have my sword" and set this whole thing off. Best misunderstanding ever!
> 
> With that said – enjoy! I hope you'll all like this!

He's never seen death like this before. 

It's everywhere. 

Death, surrounding the men lying on the ground, the horses, the spears and swords sticking out of them. All this blood. The smell of defeat, of destruction.

His stomach turns as he looks around. They all died for him, for his stupid decisions, his pride and ambition. 

And now he has to pay the price. 

One foot in front of the other as he steps over the bodies, heading for the makeshift pavilion in the middle of the battlefield. The green banners flutter in the wind as he approaches, insides twisting at the uncertainty of what will happen in there.  
  
Maybe he should have seen this coming from the start. Should have known better than to lead his army into this. He'll beat himself up over this later, no doubt. But right now, there are not many men left alive to apologize to.

Now, he has to do his duty.

His throat feels dry as he grabs the tent flap, two guards in silent sentry on each side. Will he even get out of here alive?

Will his surrender be accepted? Or will he be forced to bow before the axe, his head shown around as an example to others?

He's heard the tales, of course, even if he doubts that half of them are true.

Prince Isak of Bergheim, the great warrior of the East, the Unrelenting, Unforgiving, Undefeated. He who knows no such thing as surrender, or weakness. Who moves as swiftly as the wind with his sword and shield; youth, strength and wisdom incarnate all at once. Who lies with both men and women. Who swam across the Northern River in the winter, and survived. Who once wrestled down a bear with his bare hands.

Will there be any mercy inside this pavilion for him?

He has no idea.  
  
The prince stands with his back to the tent opening as Even enters. His back is draped in a green cloak, embroidered in gold and red, and it reaches all the way down to the floor. His armour-clad arms hang by his sides, his helmet placed on a table in front of him. Twenty soldiers, ten on each side, form a corridor leading up to him.

Even has no choice but to keep walking.

As he approaches the prince, a sudden impulse flies through his mind: to fight, to stand up for himself, his women and men and his country, one last time. If he's going to die anyway, what's the point of humiliating himself by offering his services and the few men he has left? Maybe he deserves an honourable ending, after all?

All such thoughts are cut short as the man in front of him turns around and reveals his face.

Short, golden curls frame a face that both looks so young and so weary that it’s near impossible to assess his age, even if Even knows that they’re born not more than a couple of years apart.

There's a scar running across his left cheek, but that is not the first thing that catches Even's gaze.

It is his eyes that do.

They’re the same colour as his cloak; a mossy, deep green, and there are fine lines framing them, giving him a tired, almost sad expression. Hardened and stubborn, yes, but there's a softness somewhere behind it that surprises Even.

The dip in the prince's upper lip moves when he opens his mouth as if he's about to say something, but nothing comes out.

He's nothing like Even imagined.

The prince’s gaze is fixed right on Even, and in a heartbeat, he's forgotten all he was about to say. Looking into those dark, green eyes, he knows only one thing with absolute certainty. 

There is no choice for him here but to surrender.

Bowing his head, Even unhooks his sword and sheath from his belt and sinks down to one knee. He holds it up with both hands as he looks up again, eyes on the face in front of him, heart racing, and swallows. 

"You have my sword."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all your lovely comments on the prologue! I'm thrilled so many of you remember this world and have been looking forward to more <3
> 
> Here's the first "proper" chapter! From now on I'll be posting a new chapter every Wednesday :)
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy! <3

Save for the wind occasionally catching in the canvas of the tent and the flapping of the banners outside, it’s quiet.

Quiet, but not peaceful. 

Anticipation fills the air inside the small tent, the wait almost palpable. 

He’d knelt, heard the men around him gasp at his words, without knowing what would await him on the other side. 

And he’s still none the wiser.

The look on the prince’s face had been inscrutable as he’d looked down at Even, his green eyes deep, impossible to read. His back had been straight and his lips pursed as he’d weighed Even’s sword in his hands, and then turned to lay it down on the table.

One last, long look into Even’s eyes, and then he’d turned to the guards and nodded at them to take him away.

And now, Even’s sitting here, the rope around his wrists chafing, the guards’ faces impassive as they watch him. He looks down at his hands, stained with dried blood, with dirt, with the evidence of his failure.

If only he’d chosen to lead his men through the northern pass instead. If he’d waited a day. Or gotten here earlier. 

Life should have taught him by now that there’s no point in regret, in wishing things would have been different, but he’s never really learnt that lesson well.

How many are dead because of him? How many injured, captured, or even beheaded?

He has no idea.

The strongholds at their border will surely hold the Høyland army away, like they’ve done so many times before. His country will stand strong, it always does, but it won’t be thanks to him. Not this time.

Suddenly, the silence is interrupted by voices. By the thuds of boot-clad feet, the clinking of armour, of people moving around in the tent adjacent to this. 

The tent where he surrendered.

He can’t make out what the voices are saying – everyone sounds calm to begin with, just a steady murmur coming from the other side of the canvas. After a while, however, there’s a deep, dark voice rumbling above the others. The words it says are impossible to distinguish, but the anger it holds is unmistakable. 

Another voice rises, even louder, and soon, there is shouting, the sounds of fists banging on tables, the thud of something heavy falling to the ground.

Until the commotion is interrupted by the sharp swish of a sword being drawn out of its scabbard.

In the absolute silence that follows, Even can hear a new voice. It’s a man’s voice, not as deep as the ones that spoke before, but hoarse and light, almost musical.

Even if he can’t hear the words, it feels like it’s speaking not to the men in the tent beside, but to  _ him. _ As if he’s heard it a hundred times before, and still can’t place it. As if the voice is resonating with Even on a level nothing else can reach.

For some reason, he’s certain that the voice belongs to the prince. Not only because of the way everyone else fell silent as he started speaking, but also because it somehow wouldn’t fit anybody else.

_ Prince Isak of Bergheim. _ A name as terrifying as war itself. Leader of the army Even’s been taught to fear all his life. 

After a while it’s quiet again, before a couple of other voices speak up, sounding like they’re in agreement, quieter, more subdued.

And suddenly, the tent flap opens, and another guard enters. He only casts a quick glance at Even before he nods to the other guards, and they walk up to him.

His legs are stiff and shaky after sitting on the ground, and he’s almost thankful for the hard grip the guards have around his arms, keeping him from falling over as they exit and walk the few steps over to the prince’s pavilion.

The faces of the men and women sitting at the tables are solemn as he enters. Everyone’s eyes are on him, except for the guards standing sentry along the tent walls. 

Up front, farthest from him, tall and imposing, stands Prince Isak.

Even’s sword is on the table in front of him, and one of his hands is resting on the handle, the other stroking the blade as he leans forward, and fixes his gaze on Even.

“Your Highness. We have come to a decision about your fate.”

Even’s not the least surprised to hear that he was right about who the voice belonged to. 

It just fits the prince – his dogged expression, his sure gaze, his whole appearance. 

But also the soft, golden curls falling across his forehead, his eyes, moss green, soft,  _ warm. _

Even really shouldn’t lead himself to believe that the man that holds his life in his hands could be anything like merciful or kind, but despite his situation, he can’t help but hope for it. 

“This council has decided that you are to be taken to the capital, where you will remain captive.” 

The prince straightens up, his green mantle falling over his shoulders, his armour creaking a little with the movement.

“Should you try to escape, we will have no misgivings about your execution.”

The men and women around the tables nod in agreement, and Even can’t help but let out a soundless laugh inside. As if he would even think of it.

One last look at Prince Isak before Even lowers his gaze and lets himself be led out.

Chained, but alive.

* * *

Inside the wagon, day and night blend into each other.

Sure, at times there’s light filtering in through the small window above the door, but his sleep is disjointed, never more than short fragments. With the way the wagon moves, a steady rocking sometimes interrupted by a sudden jolt when one of the wheels hit a rock or a root, Even never can seem to find any rest or comfort while they’re moving.

His hands are still tied, the skin beneath the rope burning every time he tries to move ever so little. There is a bench of sorts to sit on, a wooden seat jutting out of the wall with a thin cushion sewn onto it, but after hours and hours of swaying his legs are worn out from the effort of keeping himself from falling over. The floor is not an option; he tried to lie down on it the first day but had to give up after only a short while. 

So, he sits, listening to the wagon creak, the wind whistling through the cracks of wood, the thudding of hooves on grass. Sounds monotone enough to lull him to sleep before he jumps awake from falling to his side.

During the nights they stop, and he rests for a few hours, slumped against the wall, until the wagon moves again and he wakes even more tired than before, his shoulders aching, his whole body angled in a way he doesn’t recognize.

Now and then he hears voices outside; hushed, sounding like they’re in a hurry, and he realizes that they probably can’t wait to get him to their capital. To make sure their valuable prisoner is safely kept somewhere in the castle, out of reach.

The door opens from time to time, a cup of water held to his mouth, a bucket for him to relieve himself in, but he never sees anyone’s face in the dark, and nobody speaks to him. 

Drifting in and out of sleep, he dreams only in increments, fragments of his imagination always just out of his reach, nothing to hold on to. Sometimes, he imagines hearing that hoarse, light voice nearby, but he has no idea if it’s real or part of one of his dreams.

It’s impossible to know where they are – the maps in the castle library at home do show the neighbouring countries and their capitals, but the actual distance is hard to calculate when travelling like this.

No one in his country would ever imagine going into the lion’s den with an army anyway.

And now, that’s precisely where he’s being taken.

He still feels slightly dazed with the fact that he’s actually sitting here, breathing, his head still on his shoulders.

From the harsh way they spoke, he’s quite certain that most of the voices he heard while waiting for his judgment wanted him dead. And that Prince Isak convinced them otherwise. 

With threats, or reasoning, Even does not know – but he’s fairly certain that it is thanks to the prince that he is alive.

The question of  _ why _ is another matter.

Was it mercy? Or a calculated decision with a well thought out plan to negotiate and finally seize what he wants from Even’s people?

He wonders how much his parents have heard. If they’re mourning him already, if they presume him dead.

And, if they don’t, how much they’ll be willing to pay to have Even back.

He can only hope he’ll get to keep his head, and that his family won’t have to sacrifice too much for his freedom.

Especially not now, with their country weakened from war, from Even’s failure. What will be left if they give it all away? 

* * *

One day, or night, he wakes from his restless half-sleep with the feeling that something is distinctly different.

There’s something about the sounds the wagon makes, in the swaying of the seat beneath him, that tells him they’re in a new environment. The steady pattering of the horses’ hooves isn’t as muffled as on grass, but sharper.

He pricks up his ears, straightens his back, a sudden excitement running through him despite his situation.

Suddenly, he notices that the thumping of the wagon now has a rhythmic, steady pattern to it, and he realizes what it is. The sound of wheels rolling on paved ground.

They must have entered Bergheim at last.

There’s the repeated sounds of muffled voices, and the creaking of what he imagines must be huge wooden doors, opening and closing.

After countless turns the wagon finally comes to a stop, and the door opens.

He blinks his eyes at the sharp light of the torch appearing in the doorway, unable to make out the features of whoever’s holding it. His legs are stiff and shaky as he rises, and he stumbles as he tries to step out of the carriage, a strong hand brusquely grabbing his arm the only thing keeping him from falling over.

Only a few steps, and then there’s a cloth being wrapped around his head, obscuring his vision as he’s being pushed forward, and after a little while, inside. The muffled sounds of their footsteps and breaths make him suspect they’re in some sort of corridor, his feet almost tripping over one another as they turn corner after corner. 

Finally, he’s released, the cloth taken off and the rope around his wrist untied – and then there’s the loud creak of a door behind him, and a thud when it falls shut. 

Even barely has to listen to know what comes next: the slow click of a key being turned in the lock.

Once the white dots flying around in his field of vision fade, he sees a thin beam of light falling in through a small window in the door, the reflections of torch flames dancing on the floor beside him.

He’s in a cell.

Grey stone walls, no windows, the roof hanging low just above his head. In one corner, a bucket, and in another, a pile of straw. And nothing more. The air is humid, raw, thick with the smell of mould. And after the never-ending creaking of the wagon, the steady clatter of hooves on the ground, the silence in the cell is almost deafening.

His whole body’s aching from fatigue, from the long ride, his muscles sore and tender. It doesn’t matter how clean or not the hay in the corner is – he stumbles over to it, his legs trembling as he kneels and rolls over on his side. 

Without so much as a conscious thought, he falls asleep within seconds.

* * *

He doesn’t feel much better when he wakes up. Far from it.

Like every day or night since he became captive, he has no idea for how long he’s slept. All he knows is that his body’s sorer than ever, that his head hurts, and that his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth from thirst.

And once he’s blinked awake and realized where he is, he’s sure of one more thing.

He’s never felt more alone in his life.

Who knows how far from home he is. If anyone at home is even aware of where he is. 

However certain he was the other day that he wouldn’t want his parents to pay too high a price to bring him back, he’s not so sure anymore.

But he can’t hope for any news from home or any other favour from the guards, that’s for sure.

There’s no doubt that he doesn’t have any friends here.

Whoever might be on the other side of that wall, or whoever decides his destiny, will know who he is and where he’s from.

Everyone here is his sworn enemy as well as he is theirs. 

Not that his own country hasn’t been forced to defend themselves against other invaders. Small as it may be, many have wanted to seize their land over the years. The harbor facing the west, at the mouth of the fertile Vestelva, guarded by the high rises of the inhospitable mountains around it that make it valuable as well as strong.

But no people have tried to overtake them more times than those who now hold him captive.

He bites back a smile as he thinks of all the times his mother would soothe him after he’d been sitting by the fire listening to his older sisters’ tales, one more horrid than the other. Tales of what the people of Høyland would do if they got ahold of little children. Of the time old Ejvind got lost in the woods and never came home, and how everybody knew why. Of what the men had seen in all the wars they’d been to, and what they surely would witness in the next.

His mother would hold him, assure him that their strongholds at the border were as strong as ever. Tell him, again, about their lookouts, their gazes sharper than eagles. About their archers who could hit a mouse running more than half a league away. That no one could ever climb the mountains surrounding them, and that they’d always be stronger, no matter what anybody said.

And he remembers the promise he’d made to himself every time: that he’d never take part in this.

That when he’d grow up, he’d be the one to make peace between them. Make sure nobody had to go to war ever again.

It didn’t take many years for him to realize that things weren’t that simple.

No matter how hard he’d resisted going to the swordmaster every day, or how much he’d complained about the armour chafing him. No matter how much he’d nagged the wiseman to teach him about the flowers, the trees and bushes in the garden instead of army tactics.

He’d only been in his early teens when he started to realize that, as the prince of Vestvik, he didn’t have a choice. 

That the people of Høyland would never relent. That they wouldn’t rest until they’d gotten what they wanted. Their lands, their harbour, and everything that came with it.

And now, here he is, in Bergheim, the very heart of their kingdom, having provided them with the perfect means to achieve it.

As he turns, trying to find a position where he doesn’t feel like he’s going to break, he wonders if the men standing outside his door have grown up with similar stories. If their whole purpose in life has been to loathe, to fight and defend themselves against someone like him.

He’s quite certain of it.

And he can’t help but wonder if Prince Isak thinks about him in the same way as well.

If he despises Even just as much.

Somehow, somewhere in that lined face, in those deep green eyes, he’d thought he’d maybe seen a glimpse of some kind of compassion. Of understanding. Something giving away that they, in a way, are of the same kind.

He wonders if the prince is somewhere above, in what he’s fairly sure must be the castle, or if he’s still out at war. 

If he knows that Even is being held down here. If he cares about his well-being at all, or if he merely holds him here as a pawn, keeping him alive but nothing more, as a means of gaining even more power, to win and end this war once and for all.

At least he  _ is _ alive.

And his body sure does its best to prove it to him.

Carefully, he pushes himself up on his elbows and manages to sit up. 

The light of the torch is still dancing in a square on the stone tiles of the floor, and as he lifts his gaze, he can see a mug and a loaf of bread by the door.

He stands up before even thinking about it, his legs barely carrying him as he stumbles forward. Shaking, he sinks down on his knees and grabs the bread with stiff hands.

The bread isn’t freshly baked, but it isn’t stale, and the water is cool. He has to force himself not to wolf it all down in a second – he can’t afford to throw it all up – and tries to pay attention to the warmth spreading through his stomach after he’s swallowed instead.

He can’t help the small sob that escapes him as he chews down the last piece. 

Suddenly, the cell turns darker. He looks up to the window in the door and sees a face staring down at him. Short, blonde hair, sharp jaw. Unfamiliar, without expression. Just watching him, unblinking, and then moving away.

It’s the first human face he’s seen since he was locked in the carriage, and it looked at him as if he wasn’t even there.

Slowly, he rises to his feet, carefully lying down once again on the hay, facing the wall. The smell of mould fills his nose as he breathes in, then out, and hopes for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know – poor Even, right? I promise things will start looking up for him, eventually <3  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again; thank you all so much for the warm reception of this fic! I looooove that so many of you are excited and have all kinds of theories on what'll happen next. Wednesdays can't come soon enough for me either ;)
> 
> I hope you'll all enjoy this chapter as well! It's on the shorter side, but as the story progresses the chapters will be, ehm, getting longer (don't know if anyone's surprised, but still. ha ha)
> 
> Happy reading!

The face doesn’t appear in the window again over the next few days.

Or, what Even thinks are days – like in the carriage, he sleeps, wakes, and sleeps again, without any idea of how much time has passed. Sometimes there’s bread and water by the door when he wakes up. The mug doesn’t disappear until he falls asleep again – nobody opens the door when he’s awake.

Not that he’d be able to escape – he can feel his strength leaking out of him, his arms and legs looking even thinner than they did to begin with. He tries to keep moving, to walk around the cell so he doesn’t waste away completely, pacing around the walls until he gets dizzy.

There must, of course, be guards outside the cell at all times – he can’t imagine anything else – but none of them talk to him or show their faces. He assumes they check on him while he sleeps, when they open the door to give him bread and water, or take the bucket out.

But other than the occasional cough or shuffling of feet on the other side of the door, there’s no evidence of another human presence than his own.

* * *

He’s lying on the pile of hay, facing the wall as usual, trying to imagine what might be happening in the world outside. What the city on the other side of these walls looks like. 

Tries to picture the people moving about in the streets, children playing. Maybe there’s a market. He wonders if the fruits here are the same as at home. If he’d recognize the food if he was allowed to eat something other than bread.

Suddenly, there’s a shift in the air behind him.

Something is happening.

Slowly, he turns, and sees a man’s face in the window, watching him. Even if he can’t make out its features in the dim light, he’s sure that it is a different face than the other day. The hair is curlier and darker, the eyes bigger, the eyebrows framing them more marked.

The man’s expression is serious. Watchful, but not cruel. Then, he disappears, and Even is alone again.

* * *

Two sleeps and one mug of water later, there’s a commotion outside the door. 

Voices whispering, one harsh and angry, the other calmer. Then, the sound of feet walking away, and after a long while, a cough.

And then, the clicking of a key turning in the lock.

Even sits up, his whole body on alert.

A beam of light falls across the floor as the door opens, widening, and then, somebody appears in the doorway.

It’s the man from the other day, the one with the brown curls and the kind face. His clothes are the same green colour as the prince’s, but he doesn’t wear a cloak, and there’s no embroidery on his chest.

He stands there for a few seconds, just looking down at Even, before he takes a step forward and stretches out his hand.

Even stares at him. Is this some kind of cruel joke? A charade of pity? A pretence of kindness before he’s brought to his execution?

The guard keeps still, his hand unmoving.

“Come. We don’t have much time,” he says in a low voice, and grabs onto Even’s hand.

Even has no choice but to hold on to him. Slowly, he’s pulled to his feet, and then the man takes a few steps backwards and stops in the doorway, waiting for Even to follow.

Whatever this might be, Even doesn’t have much of a choice. So he steps up to the man, and walks past him on shaky legs, through the door, and out of his cell.

The corridor outside looks like he could have expected: stone walls, stone floor, and a low stone ceiling hanging just above his head. His cell is at the dead end of a long corridor lined by torches, with no other doors in sight. There are a couple of wooden stools by the wall, where the guards must have been sitting, a few empty mugs standing on a rickety-looking table between them.

The guard casts Even a quick look before he produces a long, black cloth from a pocket. Even eyes it and swallows – but again, what choice does he have?

“I’m sorry, but this is necessary,” the guard says, as if he can sense Even’s reluctance, and then, he lifts the cloth and ties it around Even’s head, covering his eyes.

Then, they start walking, the guard closely behind Even, his hand in a firm grip around Even’s upper arm. Even’s legs feel wobbly, barely cooperating – he trips more than once, but the guard’s grip on his arm keeps him from falling.

After a while, the guard steers him to the right. Another short walk, and they turn left. Next, right, then left again, and after that, Even doesn’t remember. They don’t seem to walk through any doors, and he realizes that this must be a sort of labyrinth. A means of making sure no one can escape.

After countless turns they stop, and the guard lets go of him. Swaying a little on the spot without anything to hold on to, Even hears a creaking sound to his right before the guard suddenly takes off his blindfold.

They’re in the middle of a long corridor, torches along the walls, identical to the hallway outside Even’s cell. To their right, there’s an opening in the stone wall, like a makeshift door.

“Quick. In here,” the guard says, looking to the side before he motions for Even to climb inside with rapid hand movements, as if he should hurry.

As fast as he’s able, Even lifts his stiff legs through the opening, only to find himself standing in a corridor similar to the previous ones. They start walking again, the guard holding onto his arm just like before, and after a short while, they reach a staircase. Even counts the steps, twenty, thirty, fifty – all the way to one hundred and seventy-four.

He’s dizzy from exhaustion as they reach the top, legs aching, and he leans on the wall while panting, small white dots cover his vision. The guard lets him rest for a moment, before he urges him on again.

And suddenly, the corridor comes to an end, with a wooden door in front of them.

The guard puts a finger to his lips before he pulls it open. There’s some kind of fabric hanging across the doorway on the other side, and the guard takes a step forward, his brow furrowed in concentration as he listens in silence. Then, he peeks out beside it and looks quickly to both sides, stretches out his hand and pulls Even out on the other side.

The corridor now stretching out on both sides couldn’t be more different than the one he just exited. 

Sunlight streams in through tall windows on one side, falling across the thick red carpets lining the floors. Heavy green curtains frame the windows, and through the glass he can see tall, sunlit mountains rising in the distance, snow-white peaks he doesn’t recognize. 

As he turns, the guard closes the door behind them, and pulls at a tapestry to cover it. If Even hadn’t known about the door, he’d never guessed it was there.

Quickly, the guard grabs his arm once more, ushers him down the hall and through an open door on his right.

“Sit here, and stay quiet,” the guard says in a low voice and gestures to a table and chairs by the wall. The key clicks as the door is locked from the outside, and Even sinks down on the bench, his head spinning from exhaustion and confusion.

This room is even more lavish than the corridor outside. It’s obvious that it’s the home of someone important – if this is indeed the castle, these chambers must belong to one of the royals. 

The long, heavy curtains are lined wild gold, the rest of them the same mossy green colour as in the gallery – the same as the clothes of the guard, and of the commander.

A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and to his right, there’s a huge bed with thick green drapes tied to the bedposts and a green bedspread embroidered in gold and red. 

On the wall opposite him hangs a painting of a man standing tall on a hill, clad in armour, his helmet under his arm, his green cloak billowing in the wind, his golden hair shining in the sun. The face lacks the long, diagonal scar, but it’s still clear that it’s supposed to be the prince.

Prince Isak.

Even looks down at his hands again, the skin on them dirty, his fingers thinner and even more bony than usual. He's still wearing the clothes from the day he was captured – his brown trousers frayed at the edges, his shirt now very far from white, and he must smell horrible.

The contrast between how grimy he’s feeling and the clean luxury of these chambers couldn’t be bigger.

Suddenly, the lock clicks, and the door opens to reveal the brown-haired guard once again. 

But this time, there’s someone else accompanying him.

And when he sees who it is, Even has to bite his lip not to gasp.

Prince Isak looks so different from when Even last saw him. His clothes are clean, his hair soft, wavy and golden – but above all, there’s a whole other expression on his face.

Serious, like before, and attentive, but there’s nothing of the hardness and indifference that covered up his eyes when Even last saw him. In the pavilion where the prince had decided on his fate.

The prince’s gaze is wary as he turns to Even, the guard swiftly closing the door behind them, and Even tries to brace himself for what might come next. A death sentence? Some other cruel punishment?

But why has he been brought here in secret? What in the world could the prince want with him?

However, nothing could have prepared Even for the words coming out of the prince’s mouth.

“I’m sorry for the hardships we’ve had to put you through.” 

Even’s mouth falls open. He’d pictured almost anything – but _this?_

“As I’m sure you’ve understood, many in the capital have wanted you beheaded ever since you were brought here.” Prince Isak's voice is just as Even remembers it; just as hoarse and colourful. “So, unfortunately, keeping you captive in this manner has been necessary.”

Even nods, lost for words. He’s _apologizing?_

“And I will not forget that you surrendered yourself willingly. You promised me your sword.” The prince’s gaze is unyielding, but there’s also a softness there, reminiscent of the first time Even met him. “And I promise you, in return, that I will hold you to that promise.”

Even nods again, and swallows. What does that even mean?

“I’m –”

It’s not until he says the words that he realizes that he hasn’t spoken for at least a week or more. His voice is cracked, rough from lack of use, deeper than it normally is.

A dark shade passes across the prince’s eyes before he looks at the guard, and then nods to the door. “Will you fetch us some refreshments?”

The guard bows politely, but hesitates as he reaches the door. “Are you sure –”

“It’s all right, Jonas.” 

With a curt nod and a wary look at Even, the guard – Jonas – retreats out the door. 

And then, Even is alone with Prince Isak. 

Untied, in these chambers. It’s almost as if he’d been a free man. Visiting another royal family. A casual meeting, as if they’d go hunting later, or dine together.

In another life, maybe.

Even looks down at his filthy clothes again, his scratched skin, the dirt under his nails.

There’s movement to his left, and he lifts his head as the prince sits down in the chair beside him.

Now that they’re alone, the prince’s restrained expression has faded at least partly. His jaw looks more relaxed, his eyes a bit less apprehensive, and he keeps his hands in his lap, the skin on them clean and soft-looking. His long fingers picking at the golden stitches lining the green fabric of his tunic. 

Almost as if he’s nervous.

There’s a fresh-looking cut running from his knuckles and up the back of his wrist, disappearing under his clothes, and Even finds himself wishing he could run his thumb over the red skin and soothe it. 

“I – we’ve sent a courier to your family,” Prince Isak says, gaze fluttering over Even’s face. “With terms for your release.”

Even swallows. “Oh?”

“We haven’t heard anything back yet.” The prince’s eyes are deep and serious. “But I’m sure you understand that it will not come cheap.”

That much, Even has gathered. A chance like this – it’s what both countries could have dreamed of for years. 

“My father is a man of principle,” the prince says. “But he’s not ill-witted – and he knows your value. As well as I do.”

He fixes his eyes on Even’s, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips.

Even clears his throat, and nods, trying to not let his eyes linger too long on the small mole on the prince’s upper lip. 

There’s a creaking sound from the door, and Jonas re-enters, a silver tray in his hands. It’s laden with fruit – apples, pears, plums, and a kind of small red berries that Even doesn’t recognize. Two tall cups, and an ornate silver decanter.

Maybe it’s because he’s so starved for human contact that he registers the prince’s every move, but he imagines the prince’s shoulders tensing just a little as the guard joins them, as if he’s putting on some kind of front again.

After he’s placed the tray on the table between them, Jonas retreats to stand by the door, his gaze alternating between Prince Isak and Even, and then the prince fills their cups with what looks like ripe, red wine.

Despite the prince’s apology, Even doesn’t dare to drink first – but as their eyes meet over the rim of the cups, something in the prince’s eyes still prompts him to take a sip.

It tastes so good he almost wants to cry. 

He’d almost forgotten that anything could taste this rich, and he has to keep himself from not swallowing the whole cup down in one go.

“Please,” Prince Isak says, gesturing to the fruit on the plate. “You need it.”

It shouldn’t affect him this much that somebody understands that he’s hungry after weeks living on dry bread and water, but he can’t help it. 

He has to swallow past the lump forming in his throat before he starts chewing the fruit. Carefully, wanting to savor every bite, every taste.

When the tray is empty, the prince not having taken a single bite, he rises, and comes to stand in front of Even with his hands behind his back. “It’s time for you to return to your cell, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, it’s not – safe for you to stay up here any longer than you already have.”

Even clutches his fingers around the armrests of the chair and swallows. He definitely wasn’t prepared to be brought here in the first place, but he can’t say that he’s ready to go back down.

Nothing has really happened here. The prince has told him that he’s sorry, that a message has been sent to his parents – but all that information could easily have been conveyed by a guard. There really was no need for him to risk that Even would be seen, and only for this short visit.

“Can I ask why?” His voice carries this time, even if it still comes out hoarse and thin. “Why did you choose bring me up here? To you – your chambers?”

The prince shifts his feet, his gaze flickering to the door before he looks down at Even once more. “It’s – I think you deserved to know. From me.”

“Oh.” He studies the prince’s watchful eyes, the scar on his cheek, his parted lips. “Thank you.”

Once more, the prince looks quickly at the door, and then, he takes a step back. “You’d better go. I – we’ll meet again.”

And with those words, Prince Isak is out the door, stopping in the doorway for a second before he motions at Even and Jonas to follow. Hand on the hilt of his sword, back straight, chin up, the prince stands by the tapestry as Jonas opens the trapdoor behind it.

With one last look at the prince, Even walks through the door and back into darkness once more.

It’s not until they’ve reached the bottom of the stairwell and climbed through the lower door that it hits him.

Maybe the labyrinth’s purpose isn’t solely to prevent escape.

But also to keep others away from _him._

He’s blindfolded again, walking left and right and forward until he loses count once more, and then, finally, they come to a halt.

The corridor outside his cell is empty, and Jonas stands in the doorway as Even walks inside, and clears his throat as Even reaches the pile of hay.

As he turns, he sees Jonas drag a hand through his curls, his grey eyes serious as he studies Even.

“I’m sorry about this,” Jonas says. “But it can’t be any other way.”

Even doesn’t know what to say to that.

So he just nods, and watches Jonas close the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's Wednesday again!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments, you're the best readers there are <3

The damp darkness of the cell has never felt more suffocating. Now that Even has seen the outside, knows there’s a way out into the light, it’s almost unbearable.

No, he’s not unused to having to resign to his destiny – but right now, with the grey stone walls closing in on him, the stench of mould filling his nose, he isn’t sure how to endure it.

Maybe it’d be easier if he hadn’t been given those small crumbs of kindness yesterday. He could have just gone about lying on his pile of hay, using the little energy he has to sleep, drink his water, eat his bread and maybe dream about home.

It’s just that he almost can still taste the fruit on his tongue and feel the wine burn in his throat.

Can still feel the prince’s lingering gaze as he watched Even eat.

Even though he’s been mulling it over since yesterday, Even can’t wrap his head around it.

The unexpected compassion the prince had shown him. The way he’d risked his own reputation – maybe his own safety – by bringing Even up there when he obviously didn’t have to.

How – protective the prince had seemed of him, somehow. 

Almost as if Even had not been his prisoner, but his equal. 

It has, of course, occurred to him that this might be a trick. A means to lure him into safety and make him trust the prince with his country’s secrets. 

In all honesty, Even should probably suspect that rather than true kindness and compassion.

It’s just that – those flashes of softness and vulnerability in Prince Isak’s eyes, of something he thought he recognized – 

He doesn’t _want_ to believe it. 

And as he looks around his cell and sees the damp forming on the cold rocks, the darkness lurking in the corners, the anxiety is paired with a sort of comfort.

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the hair curling at the prince’s temples, his lashes casting shadows over the scar on his cheek. His strong wrists, his slender fingers. How gently he’d held the fruit in his hand as he passed it to Even.

And somehow, the thought alone brings him peace enough to be able to drift off to sleep.

* * *

Even knows that he’s always been considered a dreamer. Someone who wants things that aren’t for him. 

Like peace. Freedom. 

As a child, his visions and ideas were mostly met with a patient fondness, and as he grew into a teenager, a mild irritation. 

As an adult, he’s learned to disguise them.

But it doesn’t mean that he’s left them behind.

And right now, after hours, maybe days of darkness since his upstairs visit, his dreams are all he has. As time passes, the short time he spent with the prince feels more and more like a figment of his imagination, a story he’s come up with to save himself from giving up completely.

There’s not a word from outside. No one appears in the window, only muffled talking and shuffling sounds now and then.

Someone refills his cup and places a new piece of bread by the door with some kind of regularity, but they never speak to him or meet his eyes.

The torch outside burns night and day, never fading, giving no indication of how long he’s been down here.

He knows he shouldn’t even dream about it, much less expect it, but he’d gotten the feeling that maybe, maybe, he’d see the prince again. That he’d do something to get Even out of here.

Or, maybe, bring him up to his chambers again. Or, at least, come down here to bring him some news.

Or just come see him.

In his daydreams the visions of home, of the gardens and the bay glittering beneath his window, are more and more often replaced by images of squared shoulders underneath a green cape. Of a sharp jaw, a flicker of tenderness in dark green eyes, of the tip of a tongue in the gap between skewed front teeth.

It’s ridiculous, of course – he’s a prisoner here, and nothing else. 

He should fear the prince. Remind himself of the thousands of people he’s supposed to have slain, of his unscrupulous reputation, of the threat he poses to Even, to his people, his family. 

Not dream about him coming down here to rescue him or take him back to his chambers. And he definitely shouldn’t wish for the prince to hold him in his strong arms, for him to lay him down in his bed and comfort him.

But if those dreams are all he has to keep him company through this darkness and solitude, there’s not much else for him to do.

* * *

There’s something happening outside the cell.

Human voices whispering to each other, hushed, in a restrained sort of manner. As if there’s something that upsets them, but that they know they shouldn’t talk about.

Something that most probably isn’t meant for Even’s ears.

One of the men talking raises their voice, like a muffled shout, and is immediately hushed by the other. They sound like they’re in a hurry, like whatever they’re debating can’t wait, not even until they’re off duty.

Soon after, the get talking gets louder again, and Even thinks he can hear the name _Isak_ being spoken.

It’s not much, but it’s the most exciting thing that has happened for a long time, so Even sharpens his ears, and, carefully, moves closer to the door. 

His legs are weaker than ever before, he’s seen it in the light of the torch – how his arms and legs are thinner and bonier. 

He’s barely taken more than a few steps before he trips, falls to his hands and knees and then to his side, his body hitting the stone floor with a loud thud, hip scraping against the uneven stone floor.

The voices fall quiet immediately.

The room turns darker in an instant, and even if Even can’t look up, he realizes that someone is finally watching him from the window.

There’s a sharp pain in his side, his hip having taken most of the impact, and he tries to assess how bad he might have fallen. A sudden impulse flies through his brain: what if I’ve broken it? Maybe, if I have, the prince _has_ to come see me?

Realistically, he knows that if he has broken something, it might as well be his death.

Slowly, he rolls over to his back, his rib cage protesting with a dull throb. The cell is still darker than usual, which means someone is still blocking the light, still standing there, keeping their eye on him.

When he rolls up on his other side and finally manages to sit up, the light returns.

As he looks up, the window is empty, and the cell is silent once more.

* * *

As the hours pass days and nights blend into each other, and his dreams of the prince start to mingle with a building dejection. 

The fear that he’ll actually never get out of here.

He might not have broken anything when he fell – he can still walk, even if his legs are shaking and he has to hold on to the wall if he tries to stand up for more than a minute – but he’s aching, hip and soul and heart, strength leaking out of him with every passing hour.

Briefly, he thinks about the times he’s been bedridden for days, sometimes weeks, and wonders if this is the same.

The wiseman could never explain it – no fever, no cough, no rashes. Only an encompassing weakness, a bone-deep tiredness nesting in his marrow.

Except now, he’s barely sure if those memories are even true, or if they’re something his mind has come up with, just like the memories of the prince and his airy room. Even the thoughts of home, of his parents, the castle garden, of Mutta and Yousef and all his other friends, seem like something cut out from his imagination, like a bedtime story he’s made up for himself.

Even if, deep down, he knows it isn’t true, a sudden thought strikes him: maybe all he’s ever known is this cell. Maybe he was born and will live out his whole life in here.

Most probably this is where he’ll perish as well.

He turns, blinks, the flickering light in the window staring at him, an eye that never sleeps, except for the fact that nobody’s there.

He’s alone. Totally, completely, and utterly alone.

Any hope he’s had for the prince to come carry him away and bring him to safety has seeped out him and into the cold, wet stone around him. He’s not even sure if he remembers the prince’s eyes anymore – only knows the fact that they’re green, but not what it means.

It feels like letting go of his last lifeline, the last flicker of hope dying while his vision turns to grey. Like he wants to weep for it, but he’s forgotten how to.

And, in that moment, the door opens.

The light that floods the cell obscures the features of the person standing in the doorway, and Even blinks, his mind trying to piece itself together enough to understand what’s happening.

Someone is by his side, a hand on his arm.

“Can you stand?” A voice close to his ear, a strong arm around his shoulder, and he tries to respond, but the only thing that comes out is a faint cough. 

The arm around him tightens, and he’s pulled up to his feet, head spinning, legs equally like lead and jelly underneath him. “Try to walk with me – we need to go.”

He should be able to place the voice – it’s connected to something inside him, something good, something that’ll lead him –

His arm is draped around the other person’s shoulder, and he’s pulled forward, legs shaking as they walk through the door and into the light.

However, as he’s once more blindfolded and they start moving down the corridor, he’s surprised to notice that he’s stronger than he thought. Maybe it’s because he’s walked this route so many times in his dreams by now, but it’s almost as if his legs move by themselves. As if they know where he’s headed.

As they stop in the middle of a corridor and his blindfold is removed, he looks up at the man supporting him – kind, gray eyes, brown curls framing his face, and he can feel a spark of hope returning. 

And when the guard – _Jonas_ – pushes at a stone in the wall beside them to reveal the hidden door, he doesn’t even need to push himself to step through it and start climbing the staircase on the other side.

After thirty steps he’s starting to feel a little dizzy. At fifty his legs are stiff, his head spinning, and at seventy, small black dots start to dance in front of him.

He can hear Jonas say something behind him, but he’s not sure what – his hands fumble on the wall beside him, and he has to stop, his breath short and wheezing.

He’s not sure how he makes it up the final steps – only knows that they’re suddenly in the gallery again. It’s flooded with moonlight this time, tall windows gleaming as they stumble past them.

Even’s heart jumps as he spots the closed door to the prince’s chambers – but Jonas doesn’t open it. Instead, he turns to a door opposite from it, and pulls it open.

“Quick. In here,” Jonas hisses, pulling Even by the arm, before he closes the door behind them.

The room is a mirror of the prince’s, only smaller and less luxurious. Paintings and tapestries of queens and kings he doesn’t recognize, a chandelier hanging over a table laden with bread, a bowl of fruit, a decanter and glasses. A large, lush carpet with an intricate pattern in green, red and gold. 

And, by the left wall, a bed. A big, inviting bed, covered in a gold and green bedspread, hung with drapes in the same colors as the prince’s. 

There’s nothing Even wants more than to fall down on top of it. 

“You’ll sleep there,” Jonas says as if he could read Even’s thoughts, “just come in here first.”

He pulls at Even’s arm, and leads him through a smaller door beside the bed – opening into room lined with tiles in green and gold, moonlight falling in through a tiny window far up on the wall. In the middle, a copper clawfoot bathtub filled with water so hot that it’s steaming.

As Jonas lets go of his arm, he gestures to the bathtub, and smiles. A genuine, warm, smile. “Maybe you’d like to wash first.”

There’s nothing Even would like to do more than take his clothes off and sink down into the tub, but he feels himself freeze up, and out of his mouth comes nothing but a dry croak. “Why – how –”

Jonas’ forehead creases, and he lowers his chin, before he looks up at him. “I get it, you don’t really have any reason to trust me. But – for what it’s worth, I promise you that it’s safe. I – I’ll guard the door, all right?”

The only thing Even can do is nod. And then Jonas retreats, closing the door behind him, and he’s alone again.

Slowly, he lifts his hands and starts to unbutton his shirt. The fabric is unyielding, hard from dirt and old dried sweat, and his fingers are shaking, equally stiff. It takes a while before they cooperate enough to rid him of his clothes; shirt and trousers, breeches, boots, underwear.

He looks down at himself, at his naked, pale body. He’s always been thin, lanky even – but never this scraggy, hip bones jutting out like sharp ridges, his legs stretching out like knobbly, distorted roots. 

He’s never liked his body too much, always felt out of place, a head taller in crowds, yet another way of different – but he’s never felt this ugly. 

He lifts his gaze and, carefully, he steps onto the small stool beside the tub, and into the water.

It’s so perfect that he almost wants to cry. The water’s hot enough to sting, but just on the right side of too much; the warmth enveloping him like an embrace, encompassing, the dirt and the pain floating away to the surface.

He’s rarely washed himself before – there’s always been servants who’ve done it – but the soap fits snugly in his hand, and as he scrubs at his skin, there’s a strange sort of satisfaction running through him. 

Someone must have prepared this bath for him, he realizes. There must be some sort of plan.

He wonders if Jonas did it. 

He knows, of course, what his mind is trying to come up with. Wants to conjure the image of the prince himself setting this up for Even. Thinking of Even as he ordered the servants to make the bed, to fill the tub, as he asked Jonas to fetch Even from his cell.

As he submerges completely he feels the water nestle in his hair, in the crevices of his ears, as if it could absolve him of his thoughts, his desire.

His head spins as he rises, one foot after the other on the cold tile floor, as clean as his skin. There’s a nightshirt laid out on the washstand by the window, white, soft-looking and long. Just like at home.

He casts a glance at the food on the table as he drags himself into the room, but he doesn’t have it in him to walk all the way over there.

Instead, he staggers into bed and falls asleep as soon as he’s crawled under the covers.

* * *

The golden-red gleam on the inside of his eyelids is the first thing he notices when he wakes up. There’s something familiar, yet so unaccustomed about it.

Suddenly, he remembers where he fell asleep.

His body too heavy to move, he lets himself feel the softness of the sheets, of the nightshirt, of the pillow under his head. The smell of lavender, of linen, of a foreign bed.

He barely dares to open his eyes, not convinced that this isn’t a dream that’ll dissolve the second he calls it.

The room is quiet, but it’s not the muted silence of the cell that surrounds him; nothing traps the sounds of his breathing or the rustle of the sheets as he moves his legs.

There’s only the faint sounds of the wind through an open window, of a bird chirping somewhere outside.

And the intense glow before his eyes could only mean one thing – there is daylight around him. The dream is real.

Drowsily, he blinks his eyes open, and sees where the light is coming from. Afternoon sun falls in through an open window, gleaming bright and golden over the walls, the sheets, the curtains fluttering slowly in the wind.

It’s reminiscent of the flickering light of the torch on the floor of his cell, and at the same time, it couldn’t be more different.

Everything in this room radiates comfort, from the lush pillows under his head and the warmth under the covers to the thick carpet on the floor and the scent of soap on his skin. 

If he only knew why this has been granted to him.

He’s very much aware of how easily it can be snatched from him again. Just like the last time he was up here. 

Slowly, he starts turning, the movements clumsy with his heavy limbs. 

Suddenly, there’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the bed – and he realizes that someone else is in the room with him.

A guard, most likely, or a servant. 

He swallows, and turns his head all the way to the side.

Only to see Prince Isak sitting in a chair by the bed, studying him.

This close, Even can see dark shadows underneath his eyes that weren’t there the last time they met. His hair’s a little messier, curls standing up on one side of his head.

It makes Even wonder how long he’s been sitting there.

“You’ve slept for a long time,” the prince says. And then, he smiles.

It’s not much, barely an upwards turn of the corner of his mouth – but it does so many things to his face.

The fine lines around his eyes don’t make him look as tired anymore, but as if they fit there. As if they’d form each time he laughs, as if it should be the natural state for his face. The bow of his upper lip flattens out, and his lashes somehow look even longer. 

But above all, the smile affects his eyes. They’re as deep and green as ever, the look in them still serious, but all of a sudden, they’ve turned soft.

As if he’s happy to see Even awake.

Even can’t help swell of his heart in his chest. That almost makes him forget that he is, in fact, his prisoner.

That nothing happens without a reason, and that the odds are far from in his favor here.

“Why – why am I here?” 

“It’s a long story.” The prince folds his hands in his lap, looks down on them, and then up at Even again. “Maybe you’d like some, ehm, breakfast first?”

He gestures to the table and chairs at the other end of the room – there’s still the tray filled with bread and fruit, and some kind of cheese. A surge ripples through Even’s stomach at the sight, and he realizes that the last time he had a proper breakfast was the morning of the day he first saw the prince.

He nods, the few hairs on his cheeks scraping against the pillow with the movement.

The prince averts his eyes as Even slides out of bed. He draws a breath as his naked feet hit the cold stone floor, and his head spins for a second as he rises and stands upright, the nightshirt hanging loose on his scrawny body.

Embarrassed, he looks around for his clothes – he’s not used to standing in front of someone else like this, clad in only a thin layer of clothing, least of all –

But his clothes are nowhere to be found.

Instead, there’s a clean, white shirt, green breeches and a pair of braies lying on the foot of the bed, together with a moss green jacket embroidered in gold.

“I asked them to wash your clothes,” the prince says behind him, voice a little lower than just before. “Those are – those are mine. I hope you don’t mind – they’re clean, and I think we’re roughly the same size, so –”

There’s a quick rush of blood to Even’s cheeks as he thinks about wearing the prince’s clothes – to be clad in his garments, something that belongs to him, that he has worn. He knows he shouldn’t feel excitement over walking around in his enemy’s colors, but –

He turns, quickly, only to see the prince bite his lip and turn his gaze down to the floor.

Almost as if he had been watching Even.

Even draws a breath, and gathers the clothes in his arms. “I’m just going to –”

“Please.” The prince gets up and walks over to the window.

Even though his back is towards him, Even can’t help but feel a little exposed as he pulls the nightshirt over his head. What if the prince would turn around and see his emaciated body, the bruise on his hip blooming in purple, green and yellow?

Quickly, he pulls on the shirt, braies and breeches, and after a moment’s hesitation, the green jacket.

It's weird to feel the starched, clean fabric scrape against his back. To look down and see the foreign colors against his pallid wrists. The arms of the jacket are just long enough, the waist of the breeches only a little too wide around his narrow hips.

He clears his throat, as a sign to the prince that he can turn back – and as he does, his eyes seem to widen a little.

It might be Even’s imagination playing games with him again, but he almost thinks he can see the prince’s cheeks flush. Even bites his lip, and looks to the side, toward the tray standing on the table.

“Please,” the prince says again, “have a seat.”

The fruit tastes even better this time – somehow, he has a feeling that he won’t be sent down to his cell right away – and he tries to take the time to really savor the bite of the pomegranate on his tongue, the sweetness of the apple, the rich softness of the bread.

Silently, the prince watches him eat, his long fingers resting against each other in his lap.

As Even looks down on them, he can see the faint white remaining of the cuts he saw on his hands the last time they met. There’s a fresh one across the back of his right hand, deep and red, and once again Even wishes he could soothe it. Relieve some of his pain, just like the prince has relieved some of his.

“First of all, I’m sorry it took me almost a month to – to bring you back up here,” he says as Even finishes. “And second – I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the demands we sent to your parents – they’ve refused them.”

A strange flame of pride shoots through Even at that – they didn’t budge, after all. But, at the same time, there’s a chill trickling down his spine.

“Oh. I – okay.” He watches the prince carefully, the serious line between his lips, the scar running from the corner of his eye.

“I – I’m sorry.” There it is again, and if Even could only understand _why._

He straightens his back. “Why do you say that all the time?”

He’s in no position to talk back, he’s very aware of that. But there’s something in the prince’s demeanor that gives him the confidence to do it.

“Say what?” The crease between the prince’s eyebrows makes his eyes narrow a little, his upper lip bow even more.

Even studies the shadows on his forehead, cast by his locks in the setting sun. “That you’re sorry.”

“Can’t I be?” The prince lifts his chin, challenging, eyes boring into Even’s. “Do I seem like – like I cannot feel for another human being?”

Even bites his lip. Thinks of the stories he’s heard of the prince beforehand. Of his ruthlessness. His unyielding army. His victories. _The Unconquered._

And what Even has seen since he became his prisoner. 

“No.” He shakes his head and looks down at his hands. There’s a bit of dirt under his thumbnail, not washed away in the bath last night. “No. You don’t.”

A poignant silence fills the room. The sunbeams reach all the way to the foot of the bed now, illuminating the sheets in a dark shade of pink.

Even if he just stood up, Even longs to lie down on them again.

Finally, the prince clears his throat.

“I didn’t mean to – for it to come out like that.” The prince’s voice is hoarser than a moment before. “It’s just that – I guess you know what it’s like.”

Even looks up at him, at the gap of his teeth as he bites down on his lower lip. “What?”

“I think you know what I mean. You’re a prince, just like me.” Prince Isak’s eyes flicker up to his, his dark eyes serious. “You know, most of the rich and powerful families in this country wanted your head cut off as soon as you’d knelt before me.”

“I – I can imagine.” 

“They thought I was weak when I wanted to bring you back here, to the capital, instead of beheading you.” The prince has turned his whole body towards Even now, leaning his arms on top of the table between them. “Imagine if they could see me right now, sitting here with you.”

Even nods, the collar of his jacket scraping against his chin with the movement.

“They’d probably wish for my head on stick above the city gates, next to yours.” The prince’s voice is low but steady. “We’re not allowed to show weakness. You and I.”

“So why did you bring me up here, then?” He knows that he asked the prince the exact same question the last time they met, but it still doesn’t add up in his head. The risk the prince has taken. The kindness he’s shown Even when he has no reason to do so at all.

The prince’s lashes look even thicker in the fading light, the shadows cast on his cheeks long and secretive. 

“I just couldn’t – I didn’t want you to be alone. Down there,” he says, voice quieter. 

The silence between them that follows feels different. Heavy, in a way, but sincere. This time, how unlikely it may seem, something tells Even that the prince is telling the truth.

A shiver runs through him at the thought. What was it that he’d told himself during the countless hours in the dark, alone and dejected?

That he wasn’t forgotten. Wild dreams about the prince thinking about him. Planning for his return, that he’d bring him up here again.

He can barely believe that it, in fact, seems like he was right.

The prince’s eyes gleam faintly in the dusk, the room so dark that Even can just about make out his features.

Through the open window comes the clatter of hooves on stone, the chiming of a bell, and the prince clears his throat.

“I have to leave you,” he says as he stands, slowly, eyes on Even, his hands pale against the dark green jacket. 

Even nods, again.

“And, I’m sorry about this as well, but – it’s gonna have to stay dark in here. Nobody knows you’re up here.” The prince scrapes his foot against the carpet. “And maybe you should stay away from the windows when it’s light.”

Even draws a breath. He still can’t imagine the risk the prince is taking by bringing him here. Cannot fathom what he’s willing to put on the line. For Even.

“It’s – it’s all right,” he says. “I’m just – gonna go to sleep again anyway.”

“Yes. I guess you need it.” Even in the dark, Even can see the small curl to his lips as he lowers his chin. “And, just so you know – you can sleep safely here. No one has the key to this room except me. And Jonas, of course.”

The prince stays silent for a moment, unmoving, as if he’s considering saying something else. Even swallows, wracking his brain for what he should say. How he should say it.

But the silence remains, lingers, and finally, the prince turns and walks to the door. 

“Wait,” Even says, and standing up, he bows his head. “Your Highness. Thank you.”

Hand on the door handle, the prince turns, eyes gleaming in the darkness. Even’s heart picks up speed for some reason he doesn’t even know yet, one hand on the bedpost, the other fiddling with the seam on his jacket.

“You’re welcome. And please – my name. It’s Isak.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Wednesday is here, and so is a new chapter!  
> It's so much fun reading all your thoughts and speculations on what's to come – maybe this chapter might answer a thing or two for some of you...  
> Hope you'll enjoy! <3

It’s already light when Even wakes. A pale glow illuminates the tapestries on the wall, and he turns, only to find that chair beside the bed is empty.

Outside, the morning sky glows pink and blue, a single stray cloud visible through the window, and he exhales.

His body feels heavy, but not in that weak, powerless way that comes from sleeping in increments on a cold, hard floor – more like he’s actually rested. Like he’s starting to recover instead of breaking down.

Reluctantly, he runs his hand under his nightshirt, up his thigh, along his side, counting his ribs.

However skinny he’s always been, it’s strange to feel the evidence of the days in the cell on himself – the sharp edge of his hip bone jutting out much further than he’s used to, his stomach more hollow than flat. The scratched bruise on his hip still sore against the mattress.

He wonders what he’d look like in someone else’s eyes. If he’d look as haggard as he feels.

What Isak would think of his body if he saw him like this.

_Isak._

He can still see the way his eyes had softened as he told Even his name. Like it was a secret only for him to know, something private between the two of them.

There had been nothing Even could do except whisper his own name back, before Isak had smiled, and without a word, walked outside and locked the door.

He wonders if Isak has been here at some point during the night. If he’s been sitting in that chair just like yesterday, watching Even sleep. Waiting for him to wake.

 _Don’t,_ he tries to tell himself. _He might still try to trick you. Remember that you’re his prisoner._

It just hadn’t felt like that last night.

The attentive look Isak had given him as he’d watched him eat. His concerned expression.

_I didn’t want you to be alone._

He really shouldn’t feel this warmth spreading through him, thinking of his captor. Of the man who decides if he lives or dies, who literally holds Even’s life in his hands.

Part of him wants to curl up underneath the covers, never let anyone see him. And another part can’t help but tingle with the thought of Isak’s eyes on him, maybe his hands too –

A sudden heat runs through his stomach at that. It almost surprises him. Weeks, maybe months, have passed since he’d felt his body react like this. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s actually slept and eaten, that he can focus on something beyond mere survival. Maybe it’s the unexpected kindness, the fact that someone has shown compassion, kept him company, treated him like a human being –

Maybe. In any case, there’s no denying that something stirs inside him at imagining Isak in here with him, in this bed. It makes him put his hand on his stomach, makes him slide it over the warm, clean skin and feel the pulse beat quickly underneath his palm. 

It’s familiar, yet strange – like he shouldn’t be allowed to have these primal instincts here, in this hostile land. Like he should be more composed, controlled. Not let himself go in a situation which he has absolutely no control over to begin with.

When he closes his eyes, it feels almost like he’s lying in his own bed at home. He swats the thought away – no matter how wrong it is, he’d rather be here, close to _him –_

Suddenly, there’s a sharp sound from outside, and he starts, eyes flying open, and pulls his hand away. 

Was he really about to start touching himself to thoughts of his enemy, in his enemy’s bed? What was he planning to do; come with his enemy’s name on his tongue?

A prickling shame starts to spread through him. What was he even thinking?

Wishing not to be released? Longing to remain captive, locked inside this room for who knows how long, because of some primitive desire?

Just because someone he finds attractive has treated him with the most basic human decency, when Even has, in fact, every reason to hate him instead?

Swallowing, he pushes it all to the back of his mind and crawls out of bed. 

The jug in the tiled side room is full again, the water in the wash basin is cool and refreshing on his face, the tiles on the floor beneath it flat and hard under his naked feet.

After he’s washed and put on his clothes, buttoning up the green jacket with care, he sits down at the table. 

There’s a fresh tray of bread and fruit there – indeed, someone has been in here while he slept.

Didn’t Isak say that he and Jonas were the only ones with a key?

He eats slowly, prolonging the minutes.

Now that he’s gradually regaining some strength, he’s starting to feel the urge to get out of here. To do something besides passively existing, surviving, waiting.

Surely the door must be locked?

He can’t say where the sudden impulse to walk up to it and try the handle comes from. As little as he can explain the disappointment he feels as he finds it unyielding.

What did he even think? That Isak would let him go just because they had a moment’s connection yesterday?

Sighing, he walks along the walls instead, studying the tapestries, pictures of horses in battle, women and men in armour, green and gold banners flying in the wind.

He wonders when they were made. If there are tapestries portraying Isak somewhere in the castle.

If Isak is happy with the share life has given him. Or if he, just like Even, sometimes secretly dreams of something else, being someone else. 

Those moments, like swift blinks behind a curtain, when he’s believed he’s seen a different Isak behind the stern, relentless commander seemed like an illusion at first. A product of his wishful mind, conjuring up fantasies to guard him against the harsh reality of the cell.

After last night, however, he’s not so sure anymore.

His fingertips graze the fabric, the golden threads sharp against his skin.

_We’re not allowed to show weakness. You and I._

Weakness. Is that what this is? Wanting someone despite it all? Wanting something else, someone else?

The next painting shows a woman beside a horse, helmet under her arm, auburn hair streaming down her green mantle with the wind, her chin up, triumphant. 

Come to think of it, there is supposed to be a princess in this family as well.

_Isak’s sister._

Or, perhaps, the woman on the tapestry is someone else.

Maybe Isak is promised to someone. 

Even’s quite sure he isn’t married, at least – if he was, it’d be widely known. And Isak’s room across the corridor didn’t have anything in it suggesting that anyone else usually sleeps in there. Admittedly, the bed had been big, but there had been only one nightstand, one dresser. 

And, at least, no womanly things lying around. 

He almost blushes at the realization that he’d noticed all of those things during his short visit to the prince’s chambers. Had he, already then, subconsciously looked for signs, for promises, for the tiniest of chances?

Sighing, he proceeds along the wall, fingers tracing the edge of the tapestry, small dust motes rising in the sunbeams before him.

He stops in front of the window. The sun’s already high in the sky, casting its rays over the courtyard below. A square expanse of stone, surrounded by green banners hanging from the parapets on every side. 

In the far wall is a wooden gate, heavy and sturdy-looking. There are guards on both sides of it, guards on the battlements. Further ahead, another battlement, and beyond that even more houses, roofs of different sizes at different angles, glittering in the sun.

This castle must be situated in the heart of the city. Protected from all sides, impenetrable.

As if he’d be foolish enough to try to escape.

The blast of a horn echoes outside, and suddenly he’s reminded of Isak’s warning. _Better stay away from the window._

Quickly, he sinks down to his knees, shuffles to the side, and hides behind the curtain. Not willing to let the outer world go just yet, he draws it a tiny bit to the side so that he can peek out.

The horn must have been some kind of signal, because the guards hurry to the side of the gate, pulling at a chain for it to open, revealing a procession of horsed men on the other side.

It’s obvious that the man at the head of the group is someone of importance. Tall, broad-shouldered, his back straight, his chin lifted, thick grey hair falling to his shoulders like a mane.

Even from this distance, Even can feel a fierce ruthlessness radiating from him. It’s in the way he squares his shoulders as he steps down from his horse, in the carelessness with which he hands the reins to the guard, in his determined strides as he walks across the courtyard.

As he comes closer, Even can start to make out the features of his face, and suddenly, it’s evident who this man is.

His every feature echoes Isak’s, only older, lined, more dogged. The biggest difference, however, is that there’s no trace of anything other than power, of determination and relentlessness in the hard lines of his face.

There’s a movement in the gallery where the man is headed – and there, from the shadows, Isak emerges, stepping out to face his father.

They’re equally tall, built in the same slim, strong manner, but unlike Isak’s, the king’s back is slightly bent, and his chest is a tad broader.

Hand on the hilt of his sword, the king stays still as Isak approaches him. When they’re face to face, Isak bows his head, quickly. Not submissive, but it’s still evident who has the upper hand down there.

Even can’t make out the words they’re saying to each other, only watch their mouths move. Isak’s curls shake a little as he nods, mouth hard, unsmiling.

He wonders what they’re talking about. If it’s about him. If the king brings any news, any kind of demands. If he knows by now that Even is up here and not in the murky cell down below.

Heart beating quickly, Even withdraws behind the curtain and sinks down with his back against the wall. What if anyone spotted him in the window? 

He sits there long after his pulse has slowed down, watching the sun move across the floor.

* * *

The morning has turned into afternoon when there’s a sound in the corridor outside. 

Even perks his head up, hands gripping onto the armrest of the chair where he’s sitting, feeling his heart pick up pace as the door opens, and Isak steps in.

He sits up straight, watching Isak come closer with his hands behind his back under the mantle. The prince isn’t in chainmail today, only a plain white shirt and a green jacket. The same clothes Even is wearing.

Just like yesterday, there’s a tired line at the corner of his eye, a dark shadow at the curve of his eyelids. The edge of his mouth is harder, more defined, and the hint of a smile that Even’s seen there before isn’t as easy to spot. Almost as if his father’s shadow is lingering behind it. Or maybe something else, something Even doesn’t know about.

“Are you alright?” Even blurts it out before he has time to think, and instantly, he bites his tongue – it is definitely not his place to ask.

But Isak looks at him, serious, before he lowers his chin, hands still behind his back. “Yes. Or – just tired.”

“I’m – I’m sorry.” Even swallows and studies the line of Isak’s nose, his lashes fanning out on top of his cheeks. “Did you not sleep well?”

Isak looks up at him with a strange expression, before he purses his lips together. “Something like that, yes.”

The image of Isak in bed comes to mind again, and Even can feel himself blush. If Isak only knew what he’d been thinking about him earlier, as he woke up. What he’d been close to doing _._ What images of him had flashed through Even's mind.

How much he’d wanted to have Isak there with him. 

Right now, he just wants to hold him. Let him rest in his arms, trace the scar on his cheek with his fingertip, make those hard lines around his mouth go away.

“I’m – sorry to hear that.” He squirms a little where he sits, bending his neck. “I – I hope it’s not because of me.”

Isak lifts his eyebrows, suddenly a step closer, and huffs. “No. I just – don’t want to burden you with it.”

As if Even would be the one doing him a favour, listening to him. As if it would be in line for Even to get to hear what Isak’s thinking of; as if he’s allowed.

“It’s alright,” Even says, “I’ll listen.”

When Isak finally looks up, the expression in his eyes is indecipherable. Almost soft – but he doesn’t say anything, only watches Even.

It’s almost too much, being under Isak’s heavy scrutiny like this, with nowhere to go, and Even has to say something to break the silence.

“It’s not like I have anything else to do,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders, and suddenly, Isak’s eyes turn dark, a shadow falling across his face, his mouth opening slightly.

Even stands up, extending his hand to put it on Isak’s shoulder without thinking, as if to wipe that worried look off his face. “Sorry – I was just kidding –”

Suddenly, Even can feel the tension in Isak’s shoulder dissolve under his palm. It makes him want to keep it there, make all the worry seep out of Isak’s body.

But it isn’t his place.

He lets go, lets his hand drop to his side, before he sits down again, and lets himself imagine that the curve of Isak’s mouth is one of disappointment.

Isak clears his throat before he looks down, and then up at Even again. “It’s okay – it’s kind of the reason I’m here, actually.”

Slowly, Isak removes his hands from behind his back. Even’s mouth falls open as he sees what it is Isak’s holding.

“A book?” 

“I figured you must be bored up here, and since I can’t be here all the time...” He holds out the book towards Even, letting him take it in his hand.

It’s not a very large book, small enough for Isak to be able to carry it under his mantle. Probably so as not to raise suspicion, and Even’s cheeks heat up a little as he thinks of the things Isak’s doing for _him._

“You can read, I assume?” Isak nods down to the book. 

The leather binding is soft against Even’s fingers, the letters on it smoothed out at the edges. As if this is a book that someone’s been reading over and over.

“I can,” Even says. “You know, I was brought up in a castle. Just like you.”

Isak bites his lip. “I know that you were, but I didn’t – I mean, there’s just so much we don’t know about each other. About each other’s countries, I mean.”

“There is.” Even swallows, turning the book over in his hands.

“That book is one of my favorites,” Isak says as he sits down in the chair on the other side of the table. “It’s – it’s a history book.”

“A history book?” 

“Yes. From a man who travelled around this country, and the neighboring countries, and wrote down everything he saw, and what people told him. And I thought – all I know about Vestvik is what people have told me since I was little, which is – mostly not very good things. But – but this book, it has some stories, from your people. And maybe – I thought, maybe you’d like to read them too. To see if you think it’s true, I mean.”

Even stares at him – this is by far the most he’s heard Isak talk since he first met him. Isak’s cheeks are a little flushed, almost as if he’s embarrassed by his own outburst.

The contrast to the stern commander who entered the room just minutes ago couldn’t be bigger. 

“I – thank you.” 

If this is some sort of charade to lure Even into trusting him, Isak is indeed doing a very thorough job.

Even looks down at the book, at the rounded, soft edges, and imagines all the times Isak must have held it in _his_ hands. 

“It’s from our library,” Isak says, “but I don’t think anyone will miss it.”

“No?” He looks up at Isak, only to see his cheeks turn pink again.

The tip of Isak’s tongue slides out, quick, at the corner of his mouth, before he gives a small, quiet smile. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but – there was a time when I was banned from the library. My father thought I should focus on other things. You know, swords. Fighting. Things like that. So I – kind of kept certain books in my room for pretty long periods of time.”

Even can feel his heart racing. Has Isak felt the same as him? As if there might have been another life for him if he’d been allowed?

He must have been silent for too long, for Isak lowers his gaze, and looks out into the room and then down at his hands, folded in his lap. 

“I hope you don’t think that makes me too strange,” he says, voice low.

Even straightens up to reach his arm across the table – that _Isak_ might think that _he’s_ the odd one –

“I don’t think you’re strange,” he says.

His voice doesn’t sound like it usually does. Smaller, almost strangled.

“No?” Isak bites his lip and looks at Even’s hand, lying between them on the table.

He shakes his head, slowly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you either, but I never liked to fight when I was younger. I wanted to – it sounds so silly, but I kind of dreamed of being... a gardener.”

He can’t say what prompts him to share these things with Isak, of all people. Things only the ones who’ve been there his whole life know. Isak might as well laugh at him, or turn away in disbelief.

“A gardener?” Isak’s eyebrows are raised, but his eyes are open, kind even. “How come?”

And that’s when Even realizes that nobody has asked him that before. Not his parents, not even Yousef or Sonja. 

They’ve tolerated his ideas at best, but they never wanted to know _why._

He has to take a deep breath to be able to speak through the swelling of his chest. “It’s just – I always played in the garden when I was a kid. And the gardener there – he taught me about all the different plants, and let me help with them, and I guess – when I got older, I kind of wanted to do something that was… building things up, instead of tearing them down. If that makes sense.”

“But we don’t have that choice.” Isak’s voice is low, and as he looks up at Even, his eyes are dark, his shoulders slumped.

Even looks at his hand, lying on the table. Perhaps he should remove it.

He doesn’t. “No. We don’t.”

“I used to like fighting,” Isak says, suddenly. “I’ve always been good at it, and it’s – necessary. To keep us safe.”

Even nods. He knows what Isak means.

“But – I don’t know – I guess I shouldn’t tell you this either, but I… kind of hope your parents accept our new demands. I – I don’t want us to fight anymore.”

Even swallows. He wants to ask: does it have to do with me? Is it _me_ you don’t want to fight? Or is it for your people’s sake?

And, deep down: _are you really telling me the truth?_

He scratches his nail on the surface of the table. “I hope so, too.”

They sit in silence for a while after that, the sound of hooves clattering out on the courtyard below, a magpie crying out from the roof above now and then.

It’s not awkward, or heavy – more like the silence holds an air of importance. An understanding. 

After a while, Isak asks if he’s hungry, and when Even says yes, he disappears, returning with two pies, a decanter of wine, and vegetables – and there’s a small, tentative smile on his face as he tells Even that the carrots come from the castle’s garden.

His courage fueled by the wine, and maybe the fact that he, in a way, made Isak smile, Even dares to ask him a bit more.

Learns that Isak is almost the same age as him, only two years younger. That he’s lived in this castle his whole life. That his favourite book, besides the one he lent to Even, is actually a book about animals – much larger than this one, also battered from lying under his mattress for months since he’d rather sleep on top of it than let it go. 

That he, indeed, has a sister, a year younger than him, and that she in fact is his very best friend – Jonas his other.

That he’s never seen the ocean – Even almost invites Isak to _his_ home just so he can see it, before he thinks the better of it.

But he spills himself to Isak in return. Tells him about the castle he grew up in himself. About the garden overlooking the fjord, the mountains framing the view from his bedroom. About the time he fell outside the kitchens and hit his head against the wall, and how he’d laid in bed with a headache for weeks afterwards. 

But the best part is when he tells Isak about the first time he tried to joust – how his limbs had grown so much over the summer that he tripped even before he managed to climb up on the horse – and it makes Isak laugh. 

A hoarse, short, but colourful laugh that makes his face light up. A laugh that shows off the gap in his teeth and makes his cheeks turn flushed, and Even can’t stop looking.

But maybe even better are the times Isak smiles. Really smiles, without reservation, as if he’s fascinated by what Even says; that he enjoys listening to his stories. To _him._

It’s a kind of smile that Even’s never seen before, not on anyone – starting at one corner of his mouth, then spreading to the other side, stretching out the dip of his upper lip and making his eyes look even greener.

He’d do anything within his power to make Isak smile like that every day.

To make that worried, toughened look on his face melt into _this._

The food is long gone and the decanter empty when there’s a soft knock, three quick taps on the door.

Isak straightens quickly, turning towards the sound – and suddenly, Even realizes that it’s almost dark inside the room. That somehow, the day has turned to dusk without them noticing. He has no idea how long they’ve been sitting here talking, but it must have been hours.

Isak’s already by the door, back bent, talking in a low voice through the keyhole. It’s so dark that Even can barely make out the features of his face when Isak turns around and takes a few quick steps towards him.

“It’s Jonas, I – I have to go.” The smile on Isak’s face looks almost sheepish as he adds, “I sort of… forgot that I had things I was supposed to do today.”

The tingle running along Even’s spine is thrilling as much as it is reassuring.

“I’m sorry.” He bites his lip. “It – it was nice, though. Talking to you.”

“It was.” Even in the dark, he can see Isak’s eyes gleam. “But you can’t read now. It’s too dark.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He swallows. “I can do that tomorrow. This was – this was even better.”

The silence is soft between them, lined with a tension that Even can neither stand nor help but revel in. They just stand there, looking at each other, almost as if both of them are waiting for something.

Until there’s another careful knock on the door.

Isak clears his throat and looks down at his feet, before he lifts his gaze up to Even’s again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And, with his upper lip curling into another smile, he walks out the door.

* * *

Even though it’s dark, even though he should be tired – his stomach full of food and wine, having talked more this afternoon than he’s done for days, weeks – Even’s nowhere near falling asleep as he lies in bed a while later.

These walls around him, the locked door, the uncertainty in which he’s living – none of it seems to matter at this moment. It’s still there, of course, at the back of his mind, but it’s not as important.

Not when the rest of his head, his chest, his whole body, is full of thoughts of Isak and Isak only. 

Images from this afternoon; of Isak and him sitting at the table, talking of everything and nothing, words pouring out between them without hesitation or restraint. 

And then, pictures of days to come: more afternoons talking, getting to know each other. 

Even knows very well he shouldn’t share all of these things with Isak, shouldn’t show any kind of weakness, or spill any secrets. That they’re still _enemies,_ one on each side in a war with no end. That he really, _really_ shouldn’t trust him.

He just doesn’t know how he’s supposed to hold back.

And then, appearing before him like unbidden guests, but just as impossible to resist: images of him and Isak somewhere else. In a completely different reality. In a field of grass and flowers, beneath a canopy of leaves in an unnamed forest. _Free._

His body restored to its usual strength, without marks or bruises, Isak watching him with desire.

If he closes his eyes, he can see specks of golden sunlight dancing across Isak’s face. Imagine how Isak’s lashes would flutter if he kissed him, the sighs he might let out.

How his skin would feel under his fingertips.

And despite how wrong it is, despite the fact that he’ll never be allowed to have it, he falls asleep with those images before his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there already?! :O  
> (at least when it comes to the chapter count, but... maybe not the word count, haha)  
> And well. This chapter is *cough* a little longer than the previous ones. Hopefully you don't object ;)  
> I'm still a little blown away with all the lovely comments and messages I've gotten in regards to this fic, you all make me truly happy. It is a delight to hear from all of you!  
> With that said – enjoy! <3

The book looks just like the ones in their library at home. Ornate black letters, the occasional picture painted in black and white: images of houses, of animals, of villages and their inhabitants. 

It’s easy to see why it was one of Isak’s favorites as a child – the language flows easily but is still captivating, and even the most insignificant of stories draw Even in. The writer’s eye for detail is obvious, making the everyday accounts of the villagers seem like fairy tales. 

Some pages are more thumbed than the rest. There’s a part where a man recites his confrontation with a bear in the woods very vividly, and young Isak must have found it thrilling enough to have read it over and over, the corner of the page frayed and the text smudged out in places.

He loves the fact that he can have a look into Isak’s mind, into his past, like this. As if he can get to know him better even in the hours they don’t spend together.

Plus, the book is surprisingly accurate, as far as he can tell. The writer has visited some villages on the border between their countries, and Even is pretty sure he’s been to at least one of them at some point – both the descriptions of the surrounding forest as well as the stories the villagers have told sound familiar.

But most of all, he’s amazed by the gentle approach the writer seems to have towards Even’s people. Of how he plainly states that the similarities between their peoples are many more than the differences. Of his matter-of-fact attitude that the villagers are tired of fighting. That they’d want nothing more than peace, than the end of knights and armies passing through their lands, tearing up the fields, demanding that the young men and women of the village join them in battle.

He wonders if young Isak picked up on any of this, or if the prospect of victory and glory shone brighter to him back then.

All he knows is that if he himself had read a book like this as a child, or teenager, he would have felt like he’d made a secret friend. Someone who understood him.

He reads all day, caught up in the book, having finished nearly all of it when Isak shows up in the late afternoon.

He smiles as he enters, and Even’s heart takes a jump.

From under his mantle, Isak produces yet another leather-bound volume – it seems to be thicker, but by the looks of it, it’s just as well-read as the one he’s holding in his hands.

“I figured you might want another one,” he says, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he sees how few pages there are left between Even’s thumb and forefinger.

They spend the rest of the afternoon discussing the book, their favorite parts, the facts and tales, comparing the differences between their countries.

Until darkness falls once again, and Isak has to go.

* * *

It becomes a regular occurrence over the next few weeks. 

He wakes up, grabs the book from the nightstand, and reads until Isak comes to see him. Almost every day, Isak brings a new book – one about hunting and the animals living in the forest around the capital, one about his family’s history, even one retelling the Battle of Edgaard, a tale Even has heard many times but never read about.

Surely, Isak must have other things to do besides sitting in this room, eating and talking to Even – he is the crown prince, after all – but it certainly seems like he does make time for it.

And when they talk, time seems to fly away from them. Every day, they talk and talk until they’re interrupted – by a knock on the door, the blast of a horn outside, the chiming of the castle bells, and Isak jerks his head up like he’s caught red-handed in the middle of a daydream.

And every day, they part ways with a promise of _next time. Tomorrow._

Just like that first afternoon, they talk about everything and nothing. About their childhoods, their upbringings, their countries. Sometimes it’s still for a while, the silence between them not uncomfortable, as if they only find pleasure in the other’s presence. 

There’s two things they don’t talk about, though. 

First of all, they do not talk of the fact that Even is, indeed, Isak’s captive. Of the power Isak actually holds over him. That he is, indeed, in this particular situation, not Even’s equal.

In another life, maybe. But not in this one.

And, second, Even doesn’t ask if Isak is indeed promised to someone. And Isak doesn’t tell.

Even doesn’t know how to bring it up without sounding too nosy, as if he wants to know about political details that really aren’t his place to ask about. 

And Isak doesn’t ask him in return. Not that there’s much to tell – the few times it has been on the table, nothing has come of it. There’s always been another war to fight, and the much more urgent task of having Even’s older sisters marry had already been settled.

So, they don’t talk about it, and, Even has to admit, part of him does want to keep this illusion alive. 

That this is just a normal way of getting to know each other, that they’re here on equal terms. That everything in front of them could be unwritten, theirs to decide.

As long as Isak is there, Even can keep it in, but at night, when Isak has left and he’s alone in his bed, he doesn’t have many defences left.

Can’t help but let his fantasies roam free, conjure up images of how it would have been to get to know Isak in freedom, far away from everyone and everything that could limit them. 

More and more often, Isak shows up in his dreams; as alive and beautiful as in real life, only closer. In his dreams, not even his self-restraint can stop him, and more than once he wakes up blushing from what he’s seen. From the things he’s done to Isak, and what he’s let Isak do to him.

In his dreams, his self-awareness is gone, pushed to the back of his mind. There, he has no fear, or shame – only lays himself bare for Isak and lets him see.

Isak seeps in everywhere, in every part of his being, awake, asleep, and it only takes the first few days for him to start suspecting that this is not merely a distraction. Not only a way to shield himself from the fact that he’s a captive, that he’s confined to this room without any say over what’s going to happen to him.

He’s never met anyone so easy to talk to. Someone who’s made him want to share every part of himself. Someone who listens so intently to him, who seems to _want_ to listen. Who doesn’t wrinkle his nose at Even’s accounts of his mistakes and embarrassments. Who doesn’t smile overbearingly or politely at his jokes and admissions.

Someone who _he_ wants to listen to. Wants to know everything about. He wants to know every little detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Wants to know every part of Isak, inside and out. 

There’s nothing he’s seen of Isak so far that he hasn’t liked. 

His dry, raw humor. The way his eyes light up when they discuss a passage from the books he finds especially interesting, or the way he rambles when he really gets into it. The detail in which he’s studied everything, the deep thought he’s given so many of the subjects. The fondness with which he describes his sister, his mother, Jonas.

Even has never met anyone like him.

The fleeting infatuations he’s known in the past seem more and more like faint copies of something much more real and vivid. This is nothing like his teenage crush on Sonja, nothing like his brief physical encounters during his travels. 

And even if he knows that this is just as unlikely to become something permanent, something that he’ll be allowed to have or keep, he has nothing to shield himself with.

As the weeks pass, he can’t help but suspect that Isak maybe, _maybe_ , feels something for him in return.

That his compassion and care for Even truly is real, that it stems from affection and not from deceit. 

Of course, he doesn’t fool himself into thinking that it could be something of the same magnitude as his own grand fantasies, but there are indeed moments that he thinks there is _something._

It’s in the way Isak’s eyes sometimes linger a little longer than necessary on his own, especially when they fall quiet after a long discussion. 

In how reluctant Isak often seems to leave, not getting out until something or someone calls him out of the room. In how there often seems to be something he wants to say before he goes, how he sometimes licks his lips and turns silent for a moment before he turns and walks out the door.

And sometimes, when he thinks Isak thinks that Even isn’t looking, he can see Isak’s gaze flicker down to his chin, his lips.

Sometimes, Even imagines he can see an aborted movement of Isak’s hand, as if he wants to lift it. Almost as if he’d like to touch Even as well, but stops himself in time.

Because of course he does.

As inappropriate as it is for Even to have these kinds of thoughts, wouldn’t it be the same, maybe even worse, for Isak? 

And: where could they ever go from here? Either Even will, finally, be released, and he’ll go home, and there’ll be nothing more to it. Peace between their countries is far from a likely scenario with their people quarreling over the same territory, the same issues, for as long as anyone alive can remember.

Or maybe he won’t be released.

He doesn’t want to think about what might happen then. How many of the rich and powerful families in this country that want him dead.

The king might have spared his life, hoping to negotiate some kind of treaty, taking advantage of the fact that he has Even as his prisoner – but if that fails, what is there still in it for him? From the king’s looks alone, he did not seem like one to keep Even here out of kindness.

As far as he can imagine it, there are only two possible ways this can end: either he dies, or he goes home.

And either way, it feels like he’ll lose.

* * *

“I have to go away in a couple of days,” Isak says, suddenly, where he sits opposite Even on the other side of the table with an apple in hand, fingers clasped around the handle of the fruit knife.

Even looks up, quickly. “You do?”

“Yes.” Eyes fastened on his hands, Isak nods, before he swallows. “My father has asked me to go with him to – to your capital.”

Even sits up straight. “You’re going to meet with my parents?”

“I think so.” Isak looks up at him and bites his lip. “Or, to be honest, I think my father mostly wants me there to… show off our power. I doubt that I’ll be allowed to join him in the negotiations.”

“That’s what you’re going to do?” 

“Yes.” Isak nods. “A courier came yesterday, and… I don’t know what the letter said exactly, only that my father needs to go there to speak with them. And… he wants me to come along.”

Suddenly, Even’s throat feels dry. 

Isak is going to his home. To his family. Is going to visit all the places he’s told him about. See the ocean. Maybe even meet his friends.

Without him.

“I really – don’t like the idea of going away from you. Leaving you here, I mean.” Isak’s fingers lie intertwined in his lap, apple and knife forgotten on the table between them. “But imagine – what if there could be… some kind of truce?”

“Is – is that what your father wants?” Even looks at him, incredulous. “You think so?”

“He wants the harbor, you know that – and we can’t reach it unless your people lay down their arms.” Isak picks at his nails. “But – like I’ve told you, my father… he’s not the yielding kind. So. That’s why he wants me to come along, I guess. To intimidate them so that they’ll agree to his terms. I guess I know what kind of image people have of me where you’re from.”

A lopsided smile across the table, and yes. Even does know. 

He just cannot meld the different Isaks together. There’s the image he’d had of him before he’d met him, all the rumors of his viciousness, his brutality – and then, what he saw in him when he first laid eyes on him, his face every bit as hard as he’d imagined, but with eyes that held the promise of something more. 

And, now, the Isak he’s gotten to know over the past few weeks. An Isak that is nothing like he imagined.

If he’d only known.

“I do know that.” Even smiles back at him. “I – I thought I knew who you were before I met you, too.”

“Same.” The corner of Isak’s mouth curls up, his lips stretching in that half-shy, half-shrewd manner.

Even draws a breath, and lets it out. “If only I’d known you’d be like this.”

“Like what?” There’s no worry left in the curl of Isak’s lip now, only an expectant glitter in his eyes.

Even licks his lips. “Like… kind, and easy to talk to. And, you know. Like me.”

Isak doesn’t say anything to that, just watches him, his eyes fixed on Even’s and, at the same time, somewhere far in the distance. Until he bites his lip and looks down at his hands again. “I know. I didn’t expect to... get along with you this well, either.”

A quick glance at Even, and then, they both fall silent. 

Even doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s like Isak just acknowledged that there is _something._ Something that’s been blooming between them, increasing in intensity. And whatever that something is, to have it put into words feels… significant, somehow.

“Jonas will be guarding you while I’m gone,” Isak says, finally. “I was kind of hoping that my father would bring Eva with him instead so that I could stay here. She’s much more fierce than I’ve ever been, anyway, but – well.”

“She’ll have to guard me instead, I guess.” Even glances at the tapestry on the far wall, at the warrior princess, her auburn hair flying in the wind.

Isak clears his throat. “She’d do it perfectly, without a doubt, but I – I don’t want to burden her with the knowledge that you’re up here and not in the cell... it could be very dangerous for her. She – maybe it’s for the best that only Jonas knows, for now.”

Even nods. “When are you leaving?” 

“I think the day after tomorrow. There are a few things I need to take care of first.” 

Despite the warmth in the room, a chill runs down Even’s spine at his words. 

Two days. And then this will, most probably, be over.

* * *

It’s still dark when he wakes up.

Confused, he blinks his eyes open – the curtains are drawn, but he can barely make out the features of the bedposts by his feet.

And then, suddenly, there’s a hand on his mouth.

Even’s awake immediately, heart racing, lips covered by calloused fingers smelling of soap, of sandalwood, and something vaguely familiar.

“Shh,” someone whispers, close to his ear, the sound so faint that he can’t make out who it is just from listening.

And then, Isak’s face comes into view before he lifts his hand from Even’s mouth. “I’m sorry – I didn’t want to scare you, but – there’s something I want to show you.”

“Now?” Mind still muddled from sleep, he hoists himself up on his elbows. “It’s – the middle of the night?”

“I know.” Isak’s voice is low, but there’s a hint of impatience to it. “Just – get dressed. It’s safe, I promise.”

Demonstratively, Isak turns away, just like that time when Even got dressed in front of him.

Legs still heavy, Even pulls the nightshirt over his head and wriggles into his clothes that lie neatly folded on the chair on the other side of the bed. He can’t help that his fingers tremble a little as he buttons up his jacket – what is happening? 

Are they getting out of here? 

Isak’s eyes glitter in the dark as he walks backwards up to the door. “Come. And be quiet.”

As they close the door behind them, Isak puts his hand around Even’s wrist, a finger across his own lips before he starts walking, footsteps soft on the carpet of the corridor, pulling Even along.

The last time someone had come to fetch Even like this, it had been Jonas, and he had woken up in the dark cell, deep underground, hopelessly wasting away. 

Now, he feels almost like a teenager – stealing away in the middle of the night, a secret dangling before him about to be revealed, his heart bubbling with the fact that Isak still has his fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Everything’s quiet, the moon shining through the windows of the gallery, empty suits of armor standing tall along the walls as they tiptoe down the corridor.

They turn a corner, and then through a door, revealing a narrow, steep stone staircase, leading down. Isak lets go of his hand before he starts climbing down, Even following closely behind.

Another corridor, past closed doors, Isak casting quick glances to the side as they half-walk, half-run until reaching a small wooden door at the end of a hallway.

A smile on his lips, Isak presses the handle down, silently urging Even to step through the opening with an impatient gesture of his hand.

Even doesn’t know what he’d expected to see on the other side, but it certainly wasn’t _this._

Moonlight floods a small courtyard, overgrown with greenery. There are trees, flowery bushes, red, blue, pink and yellow shining silvery along the walls, and among them flowerbeds full of different-sized blossoms. From where he’s standing, he can see daisies, aquilegia and peonies, and roses climbing the windowless walls all around them. 

When he’d left home with the army, winter had just released its grip on his capital. When he’d been captured it’d been spring; not yet on the verge of turning into summer, nights still cold.

This, however, is a high summer garden in its prime; bright colors all around him, like a dream, the air warm, heavy and light at the same time. The garden’s well-kempt, but not too tidy; here and there he can see weeds sprouting up between the flowers. Some of the bushes look a bit ragged and unruly, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s still one of the most breathtaking sights he has ever seen.

The scents of the flowers is everywhere – most of all roses. A sensation so familiar that his whole being fills up with it – it’s almost like he’s back home, in his garden, a memory engraved in him since childhood. His safe space, his constant, and it’s _here._

He turns to Isak, who just stands there, an expectant grin on his face, green eyes shining in the moonlight. 

“Do you like it?”

“I – Isak, I – it’s wonderful.” He can’t keep his mouth from hanging open, doesn’t know where to look. He wants to take it in all at once, not miss a single corner of this garden, not a second. 

Isak takes a step closer, and there it is, his hand around his wrist again, firm but gentle. “Come – let’s get away from the door. There’s something else I’d like to show you.”

He leads Even by the hand and along a narrow path, winding between rose bushes along the side until it leads into the middle. And there, in a small clearing, stands an apple tree. Luscious and rounded, with small green fruits hanging low on the outside. 

Isak walks up to the tree before he ducks down under the branches, pulling Even along into a small cave of sorts under the canopy, just tall enough for them to stand. A shelter completely shielded from the outside by the leaves, still in the night, the only light the occasional ray of moonlight trickling in beside them.

“I used to come here all the time when I was a child,” Isak says breathlessly, a twig entwined in a curl on his forehead. “Whenever I wanted to hide. I could eat apples all day.”

“It’s – I don’t know what to say,” Even breathes, because he doesn’t. 

Isak licks his lips, and in the quiet of the grove, Even can hear him inhale before he looks up at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Isak says softly. “I just wanted to – since I’m going away and I can’t be here and keep you company, I thought – maybe you’d like to see this. To have something to think of and be happy about when I’m gone.”

And just like that, in this moment, it’s like Even sees him for who he really is.

As if there’s no walls left between them. As if the outside world’s shut out not only by the branches and leaves surrounding them, but by something less palpable. Something existing only between them, vibrating in the air, heavy with the scent of roses and the knowledge that Isak brought him here, risking his own honor, _everything,_ just so he could make Even happy, if only for a little while.

As if now, there’s absolutely nothing left of the stern, blank hardness he’d seen on Isak’s face the first time they met. Only the true Isak, _his_ Isak, still holding onto his wrist, his own pulse beating against Isak’s fingers.

As if this is only _them,_ without any barriers between them, no inequalities imposed on them by the world outside. No wars or armies, no expectations, only them and this tree and the night air around them.

As if this is indeed real. Not a trick, not a means of achieving anything other than making Even feel as safe and happy as he can in this impossible place, where Isak an him just happened to cross paths and find each other despite everything.

Even should thank him, but the words seem to be stuck in his throat. Isak’s mouth is just a little open, teeth white behind the bow of his upper lip, the dip in his chin a shadow below it, as Even lifts his hand and grabs hold of Isak’s other wrist.

It’s just like he’s imagined: Isak’s skin warm and alive under his fingertips, the hairs on them coarser than his own, tickling the sides of his fingers. The tension in his arm all gone, Isak watches him, eyes like dark green pools, bottomless and alluring.

And maybe Even imagines it in the dusk below the leaves, but he thinks he can see Isak tilt his chin up towards him.

It will have to do as a sign.

He keeps his eyes open, feels Isak’s fingers tighten around his wrist when he leans forward, and, breath tight in his chest, kisses him.

It’s quick, just a touch of lips, a soft peck before Even needs to catch his breath. He draws back, only an inch, still close enough to feel Isak’s breath tickle his upper lip, his soft hair against Even’s forehead. 

Isak’s eyes are wide open, dark, with an expression somewhere between fear and wonder. He keeps still, breathing, blinking once, twice, before he lets go of Even’s wrist and lifts his hand to place it around Even’s neck.

“Is this a good idea?” Isak’s whisper is warm against his mouth, his fingertips light below Even’s hairline.

Even’s heart thrums in his chest, and his throat feels tight and dry. “No.”

Isak tightens his grip on his neck, his gaze unmoving.

Is this it? Did Even reveal himself only to be let down gently? Will Isak smooth this over, pretend it never happened? 

When he thinks about this moment later, will it have turned grey, distorted, a disappointment instead of a turning point?

But then, Isak licks his lips and blinks, once, before he moves his fingers up into Even’s hair, tilts his head to the side, and kisses him back.

This time, the air expands in Even’s chest. Like he’s going to leave the ground and float away in the moonlight. Like the only thing keeping him here is Isak’s lips on his, soft just like before, but sure and steady, hand firm around his neck.

Isak’s wrist is stronger and thicker than his own, taut in Even’s grip, and the second he lets it go, Isak moves closer, arm coming up around Even’s waist and holding him tight. 

He can feel his own pulse hammering in his throat as he lifts his own hand and, mirroring Isak, tangles his fingers in his hair. 

It sings through him: this is no dream, he was right, and this is Isak, in his arms, the warm skin of his neck alive under his fingertips. However wrong it is, however painful it might be afterwards, this is worth it – it has to be.

He might be alone again soon, but even then, he’ll remember everything. 

Every detail of this moment: the warmth of Isak’s lips against his own, the way the tip of Isak’s tongue comes out when he leans his head to the side. The wet slide of their tongues against each other, and the hoarse whimper that escapes Isak when Even meets him in the middle. How Isak grabs on harder to his hair when Even tightens his arm and presses their chests together; how Isak responds just a moment later by pulling him closer by the waist, bodies slotted together from their foreheads and all the way down to their toes.

He has no idea how long they stand there, only that Isak finally draws back, and, holding on to Even’s upper arms, he says, “I know this isn’t right at all, and I shouldn’t – we shouldn’t – but I just –”

The insecurity in his wide open eyes is another side of Isak Even hasn’t seen. One he doesn’t particularly like, but that he knows stems from care, from forethought. He is sure of that.

But even if he knows there’s hardly a chance of this ending well – even though everything points to that this, whatever it is, won’t have time to bloom, only end in disappointment and heartbreak, Even can’t find it in himself to care.

It’s obvious that Isak _wants_ this, maybe just as much as Even does, even if he tries to spare Even by holding back. 

“I know.” Even lifts his hands and, stroking his thumbs over the top of Isak’s flushed cheeks, leans forward and kisses him again.

This time, Isak’s mouth opens wide for him right from the start, warm and wet, and there’s another kind of hunger in the way he clings onto Even’s arms and presses against him.

There's a sudden, sharp tug in the pit of Even's stomach as Isak’s fingers dig into the flesh of his shoulders, and Even can’t resist to wrap his hands around Isak’s back.

Just like in his dreams, Isak’s back is strong under his palms, but yielding, and the low moan he lets out when Even tightens his embrace travels all the way down Even’s spine.

Everything he’s fantasized about, everything he’s hoped and wished for Isak to do to him is building quickly inside him, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, how to ask.

He pulls back a little and lifts his hands to Isak’s face again. Holds it between his palms, watches his swollen lips, his dark eyes, the damp curls sticking to his forehead.

“We need to go back,” Isak mumbles. “It’s – it’s gonna be light soon.”

“I know.” Even tangles his fingers into the hair at Isak’s temples. 

As little as he wants this to end, he knows Isak is right. They have no chance of making it back unseen once the castle has started to wake, and they’ll risk both his life as well as Isak’s if they’re caught.

Isak takes Even’s hands in his, intertwining their fingers before he takes a step back, and, with a small smile, pulls Even along out from underneath the tree.

The scent of roses is just as heavy as before, intoxicating, and Even feels like he’s floating through the garden, holding on to Isak’s hand, moon gone, the sky glowing faintly pink above the battlements. 

He hasn’t slept at all as long as he’s used to, but there’s not a tired bone in his body as they run, hand in hand, through the garden door. Even the steps up the staircase are no challenge, his heart singing in his chest.

But, as they’re running down the gallery Even’s throat is starting to feel tight. Maybe this is it? Are they going to go to their separate rooms, walls between them again? 

Perhaps they should. Perhaps Even should be satisfied with what he’s been given – confine these otherworldly kisses to his memory and let them stay there. Cherish them, know that nothing more could ever come from this, and let it rest.

Not make this any more impossible than it already is.

But how in the world is he supposed to let Isak’s hand go? To turn his back on him and let Isak lock the door? Lie down in his own cold bed, now knowing what Isak's body would feel like, but not having him there?

Just like when they kissed, Even is suddenly certain. 

However much it might hurt afterwards, even if it’ll make him miss Isak even more, it has to be worth it. It has to be.

They stop outside Even’s door, fingers still intertwined, early morning light starting to glow through the gallery’s windows.

He grabs on harder to Isak’s hand, looks up at him, and swallows. “Will – will you come to bed with me?”

Isak’s eyes widen even further, and he licks his lips. “I –”

“I know you shouldn’t, that – we shouldn’t, but –” Even lowers his face, keeps his eyes locked on the dip in Isak’s chin. “– I want you to. I really do.”

Maybe he wouldn’t have dared to ask for this if they had all the time in the world, if Isak wasn’t leaving in two days. But right now, it feels like every second is slipping through his fingers, and that he needs to keep Isak with him through every one of them, whatever it'll cost. 

There are little indents on Isak’s lower lip from how he’s been biting it when he looks up at Even, a long, lingering look under thick lashes. 

And then, with a quick, soft smile, he nods and presses Even’s hand back.

Even can feel his own mouth curl into a smile as he reaches behind him for the door handle, and, pulling Isak along with him, he presses it down, almost falling into his room, Isak stumbling over his own feet with a hushed, hoarse laugh.

It’s not until Isak locks the door and Even sees the pale morning light falling over the crumpled sheets on the bed that a nervousness starts creeping up on him.

Not that he doesn’t want this – he’s fairly sure he’s never wanted anything more in his life – but because he realizes that Isak is going to _see_ him.

See his scrawny body, his sunken-in stomach, the still thickened, uneven skin on his hip from the bruise. Suddenly, his hands feel too big, his lips numb.

He's left standing on the floor by the bed while Isak locks the Door, biting his lip, and then, he feels two arms wrap around him from behind before Isak turns him around. A soft smile on his face, he puts a hand on Even’s cheek. Soothes his thumb along Even’s jaw, almost as he knows what Even's thinking.

And then, Isak walks over to the window and draws the curtains shut. After that, he walks up to the bed and loosens the drapes tied to the bedposts on all four corners. 

Then, he comes to stand before Even again and kisses him – and suddenly, everything is right with the world again.

The tip of Isak’s tongue against Even’s own, the warmth of his mouth, his hands caressing Even’s sides; they set everything right, take Even out of his mind and into the moment, settle him in the absolute certainty that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The hot, almost visceral desire he'd felt when they kissed under the apple tree flares up in his stomach again, but faster, harder, so intense it almost sets him off balance.

Only this time, he knows what this can lead to. _Will_ lead to. They’re behind closed doors now, the room dark, and his heart beats so quickly that he feels weak in the knees.

Fingers trembling, he lifts Isak’s shirt up, lets his hands slide in under the fabric and his fingers trace the outline of his spine.

Isak moans and lets go of his lips to pull back and start untying Even’s jacket, then his shirt.

Again, it’s almost like Isak senses that Even doesn’t want him to look too closely despite the dark, that he needs Isak's skin on his not to float away and lose his courage – he keeps his lips attached to Even's as he gently lifts the shirt over his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. 

Even's tries to keep his hands steady as he rids Isak of his jacket and his shirt, unties the knot in the belt holding up his breeches and pulls down his braies.

And then, they’re both naked. 

It’s almost dream-like – only a few hours ago, as he went to bed, he'd barely dared to dream of this, and now he's here, with Isak's warm, naked skin on his, Isak's breath on his mouth. Isak's hands on him, about to pull him into bed and lie down with him. 

Part of Even wishes he could still see Isak. See if he'd have the same hungry look in his eyes as Even has pictured in his dreams. If his chest and arms look just as strong as they feel under his fingers, if he's just as lovely naked as Even knows he must be.

On the other hand, in the near complete darkness of the room his other senses heighten, allowing him to notice other things.

The sound of Isak’s quick breaths against his lips, the soft scraping of his palms as they run down Even’s back. The scent of him, much stronger here, without the distraction of the flowers. Sweat, warm skin, a faint shade of soap, the same one Even’s been using.

And above all, he _feels._

Feels the smooth warmth of Isak’s chest against his own, the strength in Isak's arms as they embrace him. The sharp outlines of Isak’s shoulder blades under his palms, the tickling of the little hairs on the back of Isak’s neck against his fingers.

And when Isak places his hand on the small of Even's back and pulls them closer together, he feels how hard Isak is against him. His head spins a little at the evidence that Isak wants this, too. Wants _him._

He doesn’t want to wait any longer, doesn't want to risk that feeling of uncertainty and doubt to creep up on him again: he grabs hold of Isak’s upper arm and pulls at it, making them fall down on the bed and crawl up on top of the covers, within the confines of the drapes hanging on all sides. 

And then, Isak puts a hand on his shoulder, rolls him over on his back, and lies down on top of him.

The weight of Isak’s body on his own feels grounding, like a shelter. It’s warmth and closeness, a reassurance that Isak is really _here,_ wants to be, pressing Even down into the bed and holding him still.

He wonders if he should say anything, ask Isak what he wants, what they should do – but before he has time to, Isak cards his fingers through his hair and puts his lips on his. Weighs him down and slots their mouths together in another kiss. 

Slow but unyielding, soft and still deep.

Isak hums into his mouth as he strokes his hair, runs his hand up Even's arm and takes his hand, holding it gently against the mattress. Not hard or forceful, but just like the weight of his body on top of him; comforting, safe.

Again, he kind of wishes he could see Isak. Wishes he could see if his eyes are black now, all pupils and nothing more. If there are more of those birthmarks on his shoulders, further down on his back. 

Wants to see the curve of his spine, the hard muscles in his stomach.

But at the same time, he’s thankful for the darkness. Not only doesn’t he want Isak to see too much of him, but he also isn’t sure if he could handle seeing Isak, fully naked like this. If he’d be able to continue and not be overwhelmed with nerves.

Right now, the feeling of Isak’s body against his own, the fact that he’s lying naked here on top of him, has to be enough.

It _is._

There's nothing else he could ask for right now than this – Isak's warm skin on his own, his wet, soft mouth. The slow press of his hips against Even's as he starts rocking gently back and forth. It’s so easy, and right, nothing more to it than their bodies moving with each other in the simplest way, heat spreading through Even’s stomach for every time Isak moves, for every stroke of his tongue against Even’s own.

He puts his hands on the back of Isak’s thighs – the hairs there are coarse under his palms, and as he pulls Isak closer and bucks his hips up against him, chasing the feeling of _more._

“Shh,” Isak whispers, breathy and quick, “we have to be quiet.”

And right, of course they’re not supposed to – but Even doesn’t want to think about that now. Nothing else is allowed in here than them, together, no thoughts of the outside world, nothing else. 

Even pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind, and tightens his grip on Isak instead. Pulls Isak down with more force, silently urging him to go faster, make them both forget where and who they are and just let their bodies lead the way.

Maybe Even should take slower, take his time to revel in how they’re finally in bed together, just like he’s dreamed of – but right now, he doesn’t have the patience. Doesn't want anything else.

And it seems like Isak feels the same – there’s nothing languid anymore about the way he thrusts his hips against Even’s, or about the way he pushes his tongue into Even’s mouth. One hand in Even’s hair, the other holding his hand down, and Even meets him in the middle, lifts his hips up and opens his mouth for him.

He tousles one hand into Isak’s hair as well, the damp sweat at the roots making his fingers slide against his scalp – and at that, Isak gives off a whimper and pushes down even harder.

It sends sparks down in Even's belly – that such a small thing can make Isak keen in his arms makes him want to find out all the other things there are to know about him. What else could make Isak give off those sounds, what will make him lose control.

So he does it again, tangles his fingers in Isak’s hair and curls them carefully, making Isak moan wetly and pick up the pace.

There’s nothing that matters but this, nothing but the steady, insistent roll of Isak’s hips, of their breaths mingling, of the warm air inside the drapes. And it’s starting to build in Even’s stomach, a race up the ridge, too fast and not enough, inevitable.

He’s already so close, desire built up inside from all the time he’s been hoping, fantasizing, wishing for this to happen. And he could come like this – he probably will, if Isak keeps this up – but they have so little time left. If this is the only time he’ll be allowed this, he at least wants to know how Isak feels in his hand.

If the weight of him in his palm will be just like he’s dreamed of.

One hand in Isak's hair, the other holding around his back, he wraps one leg around Isak’s and rolls them over. 

There’s a quick gasp from Isak as he's suddenly on his back, Even rolling up halfway on top of him. For a second, Isak stills, and then he grabs on to Even’s neck, grip just as steady and secure as it had been when they kissed in the garden. 

Part of Even just wants to keep pressing his hips down on Isak’s, to do the same thing as they did just a moment ago, only mirrored – but he has to feel. Needs to sneak a hand in between them and let himself feel Isak against his palm.

Down the hard muscles of Isak’s stomach, fuzzy hairs below his navel tickling the inside of his wrist as he lifts himself up just enough to be able to wrap his hand around him.

Again, Isak lets out a gasp and tightens his grip on Even’s neck. And when Even starts moving his hand up and down, Isak takes a hold of his hair and pulls, so hard that it’s on the verge of painful. 

But only almost. More than that, it lightens Even up from the inside. Makes his head spin with the knowledge that he can make Isak lose it like this with just his hand, gasp for breath every time he moves it.

Instinctively, he starts moving against Isak, rubs himself against his hip in sync with his hand without thinking. And it seems like Isak doesn’t mind – the hand not grabbing on to Even’s hair moves down to the small of Even’s back, pulling him closer, encouraging him to keep going.

So he does, stroking Isak slow and steady, pressing against him while Isak pants against his mouth. 

Even tries to kiss him, but without much success – they’re both too far gone now, it’s only lips sliding against each other, pants mingling with hushed moans.

Gradually, he picks up the pace with his hand, not having it in him to wait much longer, short, quick inhales escaping Isak as he does. He can feel Isak starting to move his own hips up against his hand, chasing his own release, faster and harder. 

He can’t really rub against Isak when he moves like this, but it doesn’t matter. Right now, he only wants to hear those moans get louder, wants to feel Isak shudder in his arms and empty himself with Even’s hand wrapped around him.

It doesn’t take long until Isak’s breath hitches, until his fingers curl tightly in Even’s hair – and then, he moans against Even’s lips, low and drawn out, pulling Even flush against him, and Even feels his cock twitch under his fingers, feels something wet hit the side of his wrist.

He works Isak through it; only lets his mouth hover over his, and soon after, Isak stills. For a moment, they lie like that in silence, Isak's breaths evening out, his body gradually becoming soft and pliant in Even's arms.

And then, without a word, he releases Even’s hair and puts his hand on top of Even’s, intertwining their fingers. Lifts their hands, together, and moves them from his own cock to wrap them around Even's instead.

Little white dots start to flutter in the outskirts of Even’s vision as Isak starts to move their hands together, his hand on top of Even's. His firm grip is both exhilarating and comforting – Even doesn’t have a say in this, it’s Isak who controls it, who sets the pace and takes care of him, and it's everything he didn't know he wished for.

Just like before, when Isak walked up to the window and shut the curtains, he seems to know exactly what it is Even needs. It’s just right, the surety with which he holds on to Even, the press of their combined fingers perfect. 

There’s not a word Even can say to tell Isak how much he likes it, nothing coherent will come out of his mouth right now, so he just turns his head and kisses him, pushes his tongue into Isak's mouth as if his life depended on it. 

The last thing he wants right now is for Isak to stop.

And Isak seems to get it, kisses him back, hot and wet, and keeps stroking him, firmer, faster.

There’s no way Even could hold back right now even if he wanted to. He never wants to escape this; this encompassing feeling of Isak holding him in his arms, in his care. Touching Even as if he knows him to his core, as if they’re connected in more than just a physical way, as if Isak can read his mind as well as his body in the darkness, just from having his hands on his skin.

Even whimpers, presses closer, wants to suck up every last second of this, every inch of Isak’s skin against his, every breath they share, and suddenly, with a quick twist of Isak's wrist, it all spills over.

He empties himself over his own hand, over Isak’s, heart hammering in his ears, his stomach contracting as he pants against Isak’s lips, vision disappearing in a haze of black and white as Isak works him through it, moving their hands together, gradually slowing down. Until everything goes quiet.

Slowly Isak lets go, lifts their hands, fingers still intertwined, sticky and wet, and places them together on top of his chest. Even rolls forward, halfway up on top of Isak, his forehead damp with sweat against Isak’s temple, head void of thoughts.

Nothing exists in here but this. Nothing but their bodies slotted against each other, damp with sweat and come, the pulse in Isak’s chest steady underneath his hand. His own heart, still beating like a hammer against the side of Isak’s rib cage.

Their noses soft against each other, the warmth of Isak’s breath tickling his upper lip.

“I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you,” Isak whispers, voice contained by the drapes surrounding them, low enough that if anyone stood outside, they wouldn’t hear anything.

Even swallows. 

“Since that day you walked into my tent on the battlefield, I’ve been thinking about you. About this.” The words almost fall out on top of each other, quickly, as if Isak is running a race against time, and he has to win it. “And I knew it could never happen, because you’d be my prisoner, and I know this – this shouldn’t have happened, but I couldn’t – I didn’t –”

Isak’s words whirl inside him. _Since the first time I saw you._

What was it he’d been thinking as Isak had turned around inside that pavilion, and Even had seen his face for the first time?

That he didn’t have any other choice but to surrender.

He tightens his grip on Isak’s hand, presses their foreheads together, wet hair plastered between them. “I – me too – you have no idea, and you’re right – we probably shouldn’t have done this – but –”

“We did.” There’s a hint of a laugh in Isak’s voice, coloring it with something that sounds a lot like fondness.

He smiles against Isak’s lips, invisible in the dark. “Yes.”

“I’m still happy that we did.” Isak’s voice is thin, smaller than he’s ever heard it.

He lets go of Isak’s hand, lays it down on his chest, and lifts his own to put it on top of Isak’s cheek, the barely-there stubble scraping against his palm as he caresses it.

“Me too.”

Isak doesn’t say anything, just moves his hand to Even’s cheek in the same manner, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. 

The touch makes Even’s eyes fall shut, the calloused skin of Isak’s finger sending a soothing warmth down his neck and into his chest. 

In just seconds, his eyelids start to feel heavy. 

There’s so much he wants so ask Isak. So much he wants to talk to him about. He wants to ask him what this means, what it is that they’ve shared. If it’s just physical intimacy, or if it’s something more.

But he also doesn’t want to tear this moment apart. Wants to just lie here, tired and sated, and let his body go pliant against Isak’s. To let himself revel in Isak's presence, his warmth, his touch.

And even if he doesn’t want to miss a second, he can’t help but succumb to the heaviness spreading through his limbs – he can feel his mind start to drift, and somewhere in the distance, there's a whisper.

“Just sleep. It’s safe.”

And, like that, surrounded by Isak’s arms, their legs tangled on top of the covers, he gives in. Lets himself be wrapped in the trust that Isak will keep him sheltered, and floats away to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an amazing response to the last chapter! Thank you all so much, you're the best readers there are <3  
> (and happy birthday to Even, even if it isn't today in this particular verse)
> 
> I know a lot of you have been anxious to know what'll happen next to this Even and Isak, so I'll let you get to it ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

He wakes to warm lips pressed against his forehead. Still dazed from sleep, he blinks, a blur of golden curls filling up his vision, the scent of Isak enveloping him.

“I have to go take care of a few things,” Isak whispers, lips on his. “Just go back to sleep. I’ll get back here as soon as I can.”

And then, with a quick kiss, he’s gone, only leaving behind a small gap in the drapes at the side of the bed.

Softly, the door closes, and after the lock clicks; silence.

Even lies still on his back. Breathes, and keeps his eyes fixed on the canopy above, dark green in the warm light filtered in between the drapes.

Of course Isak has things to take care of. Because he’s leaving tomorrow.

However much Even knows that he needed this sleep, he can’t help cursing himself for missing out on even a few hours. Even a second would have been too much.

But now, when Isak is away, there’s nothing to else to do. Maybe, if he sleeps now, he'll be able to stay awake until Isak has to leave.

Slowly, he rolls over to his other side. There’s still an indent in the pillow from where Isak’s head has rested, the sheets still crumpled when Even drags his fingertips across them.

He thinks of all the hours he’s spent alone in this bed during his captivity, thinking of what it’d feel like to have Isak here with with him. Smiles to himself with the knowledge that now, he doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

Now, he knows it all. The warmth of Isak’s lips on his. The hunger in Isak's kisses, the desperation with which he’d grabbed onto Even’s neck. The weight of his body on top of Even’s, the low-pitched gasps he’d made as Even had wrapped his fingers around him.

The sounds he’d made as he came in Even’s hand.

And above all, the words he’d whispered before they’d drifted off to sleep together. _I’ve wanted this since the first day I saw you._

Isak has been thinking about him in the same way as he has – and it turns everything upside down. Makes Even want to think back again and again on all the moments they’ve shared. 

He runs his hand over his chest, cards his fingers through the hair at his temple, just like Isak had done. Thinks of all the other people who’ve done similar things to him, the ones he’s had in his bed before.

The few, fumbling times with Sonja in his teenage years, before she was sent off to marry the prince of Neerland. The many short encounters he’s had since then during his travels. Mostly just one-time things, sometimes for a week or a little more when they’ve done longer stops with the army. Some of them men, most of them women. 

Sometimes, he’s had the feeling that some of them knew very well who he was, and saw their chance of bedding a prince.

And sometimes he hasn’t minded – the need to be close to someone else, to feel less lonely after weeks of marching has been very real – but deep down he’s always known that those kind of short-lived relationships weren’t really for him.

Even though it had been completely dark last night, Isak’s face merely a shadow, he can’t remember feeling this – seen. 

The way Isak had seemed to know just what Even needed. The tenderness with which he’d run his hands over Even’s face and shoulders, his thumbs over Even’s cheekbones – touching him as if it brought Isak joy to do so, and as if he wanted Even to know. 

Even if the gaps between his ribs are less marked now than only a week ago, Even still doesn’t really recognize his body. It still hurts in places, his shoulder sore from where it’s been jutting into the mattress, the skin on his hip still thickened and rough from when he fell. It didn’t seem to matter to Isak, though; he’d just touched him all the same, and kept doing so.

He wonders for how long Isak will be gone. What he has to do today. If he’s thinking about Even while doing it.

If he’s going to come back here when he’s finished, like he promised.

This time, if he does, Even's not going to throw himself at Isak without words. He can't stand the thought of them being apart for so long without knowing what Isak’s really thinking of him – he just has to gather up the courage to talk to him about it.

The thought of _why_ Isak has to go away in the first place is one he doesn’t want to entertain. The fact that he’s accompanying his father to Even’s homeland to negotiate about _him,_ his life, his worth –

It’s not that he mistrusts Isak. Not anymore. Or, at least, he really doesn’t want to. But he knows, just like Isak does, that neither of them have a say in this. 

That their future is for someone else to decide.

Sighing, he stretches out his arm, and grabs hold of the pillow Isak’s been sleeping on, burrows his nose into the fabric and inhales.

If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can feel the scent of him lingering, a curly hair tickling at his chin.

* * *

The next time Even wakes the curtains are open, and the drapes around the bed are drawn to the sides, tied to the bedposts. From how the sun falls over the carpet, from how the light seems on the verge of turning golden, he’s guessing it must be late afternoon.

And, beside him in bed, eyes closed, eyelashes thick and dark on the tops of his cheeks, lies Isak. Curled into himself, body turned towards Even, a hand gripping the pillow under his head, breaths slow and heavy.

Sleeping, next to Even, unprotected and bare. Covered only in the sheet pooling around his waist, bare feet sticking out, the small hairs on his arms shining golden. 

For the first time, Even sees him, really sees him, without clothes, and even if he'll never meet Isak again after tomorrow, he’s sure – he’ll carry this image with him his whole life.

Isak’s calm, deep breaths, making his chest lift and fall slowly. His half-open mouth, the bow of his lip, his hair a fuzzy golden crown around his forehead.

His shoulders, wide yet slim, muscular but sinewy. The tufts of soft brown hair sticking out of his armpits; his dark, small nipples. The scar running along his left clavicle, a mirroring of the one across his cheek, and Even wonders if he got them at the same time.

He wants to know it all; all there is to find out about Isak, inside and out. 

And he wants to show himself to Isak just the same. Let Isak know things he’s never told anyone else; let him touch all of his body despite everything that is wrong with it, lay himself bare and give him everything. 

If only there was time. 

Asleep like this, Isak’s every feature is soft; nothing like the first time they met. 

This is the Isak from underneath the apple tree last night, the Isak that pulled him along by the hand, laughing, kissing. 

The Isak Even wants to believe is the true one. Unshielded, free.

Faint dark shadows underline Isak’s eyes, and Even wonders for how long he’s been asleep. 

Carefully, he shuffles closer, inch by inch, close enough that he can feel the warmth of Isak’s body against his without actually touching. Watches the birthmarks on Isak’s chest rise and fall with every deep breath, the gap between his front teeth barely visible through his parted lips.

He wonders what kind of offer, or demand, Isak’s father has given his parents. What parts of it they didn’t agree to, what makes this trip necessary. 

It feels a bit odd to think that _he_ is the reason for all this.

As much as he knows that there’s no use beating himself up over decisions made in the past, he can’t help but wonder what his parents think. What they’ll say to him when, or if, he finally comes home.

What sacrifices they’ll be forced to make for his sake.

But he can’t ignore the fact that if he _hadn’t_ made those choices, if he hadn’t been defeated and forced to surrender, Isak and him would never have met.

Not under these circumstances, at least. 

Waiting for Isak to wake, he tries to come up with a possible scenario where they still could have gotten to know each other, but comes up short.

The animosity between their countries is just too deep, goes too far back for it to seem possible.

What if – maybe – something could come from this negotiation, something that means that they don’t have to stay enemies? Some kind of agreement, or perhaps even – _peace?_

It’s hard to imagine a future where Isak and him could actually be together, for real. As lovers, or even friends. 

It doesn’t mean he can’t let his mind wander. Imagine how Isak’s hair would glow in the reflections of sunlight on the waves if they’d walk along the sea together. How unruly his curls would become from the breeze.

Isak’s fingers twitch on the hand gripping the pillow, and then he sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, so that his shoulder comes to rest against Even’s chest. The bare touch sends a wave of warmth through Even, and he drapes his arm across Isak’s upper back. Strokes his palm along Isak’s arm, and puts his lips on the warm skin of his shoulder.

Isak makes a small, content sound at that and moves closer, as if he searches for Even’s touch even in his sleep.

It’s near impossible to fathom that they’re _here,_ like this, right now – and that at the same time tomorrow, Isak will be gone.

He grips on to Isak’s arm a little tighter, without thinking. As if his body somehow imagines, subconsciously, that it could make Isak stay.

Another low, humming sound escapes Isak, and it makes Even’s heart sing and clench at the same time. Makes him wonder if there’s anyone else who’s heard him make those sounds; if anyone’s been allowed this close.

But it also makes his chest flood with warmth – that Isak obviously _wants_ to be this close to him, has undressed and crept into his bed. Even felt safe enough to fall asleep beside him.

Suddenly, Isak’s arm tenses up under his palm, and then, his eyes blink open. Slowly, gaze confused and glazed over at first, before he looks straight at Even.

And then, he smiles. Even’s favorite smile, the one that starts from one corner of his mouth and slowly travels to the other. The smile that makes the bow in his upper lip straighten out, that makes his whole face soften into something both content and alluring.

“Hello.” Isak’s whisper is gravelly and hoarse, so low that if someone stood by the foot of the bed, they’d barely hear it.

Even strokes his hand down Isak’s side. “Hello yourself.”

“How long have I slept?” The scar on Isak’s cheek is squished soft against the pillow, making it look like an endearing feature rather than a hardened one.

Even smiles, pulling him closer by the waist. “I have no idea. I was asleep when you came here, you fool.”

“Fool?” Isak raises his eyebrows, forehead creased as he stares at him.

Even bites his lip against the satisfied smile threatening to overtake his face. “Yes. Fool.”

This isn’t usually how he talks to Isak, or to anyone, but there’s a lightness to this moment, despite everything, that makes it slip out. Even if they haven’t really _talked,_ there’s this sense of closeness between them since last night that makes him want to joke, to laugh off the shadows looming over them.

Isak only huffs, and closes his eyes again. 

“Is that a way to talk to a prince?” he mumbles, but Even can see how he bites his lower lip, as if there’s a smile waiting to spill out.

“You’re forgetting that _you’re_ talking to a prince, too,” Even reminds him. 

Isak opens one eye, squinting at him, and there’s a glitter behind his lashes before his face turns serious again. “I did almost forget.”

“Me too,” Even says.

It’s true – this bed, this room, feels like a bubble, invisible to the outside world, containing only them and nothing else. Stripped of their clothes, of everything that makes them who they are. 

Only their naked bodies close to each other. This secret that is only for them.

“Did you sleep?” Isak says in a low voice, gaze tracing his own fingers running along Even’s arm.

“Yes.” Even swallows. “When I woke up, I – was so happy to see you here. I wasn’t sure if – when you’d come back.”

“Of course I did.” Isak rolls up on his side, facing him, chest flushed and wrinkled from the sheets. “I took care of everything as fast as I could, I – I wanted to get back here and be here when you woke up.”

Even’s heart beats faster in his chest. “Don’t you have anything else to do today?”

“Jonas will take care of the rest,” Isak says, scooting closer and laying a warm, heavy arm around Even’s back. “I want to stay in here with you.”

“You do?” His voice barely carries, sounds thin and foreign, and Isak’s eyes are moss green, and so close.

Isak nods, but doesn’t say anything, only licks his lips, the dark shades under his eyes making them seem bigger, wanting, and Even lets himself get drawn into a kiss.

It’s slow and soft, a lazy morning kiss, and Even can’t resist the sudden thought of what it would be like to have this for real. To be allowed to wake up next to Isak every day, and lie down beside him every evening.

There’s that nagging thought inside his head, reminding him of the promise he made to himself this morning – that he wasn’t going to let himself get lost in Isak until they’d talked, but –

Right now, he doesn’t want anything else but this. Only wants to preserve this feeling of Isak's lips on his, of Isak's warm skin under his fingertips. No interruptions, no second thoughts.

He pushes it to the back of his mind and cards his fingers through Isak’s hair instead, feels him sigh against his lips. 

Just for a little while longer.

And then, Isak pulls back. Looks at him, tongue darting out against red lips, before he swallows. “Even, I – I know it’s so wrong of me to want you like this, but – I can’t help it. I just –”

“Me neither.” It comes out breathless, quick, and he can see Isak’s eyes turn darker. 

Sees how he licks his lips again, as if there’s something he wants to say, but doesn’t know how. 

The hand on Even’s shoulder travels up his neck, then down to settle between his shoulder blades. “I tried so hard not to act on this – how I feel for you. I know we’re at war, I know that you’re my – my prisoner and that I shouldn’t take – advantage of you –”

“You’re not taking _advantage_ of me.” He grips Isak’s shoulder, holds his gaze. “I want you here. I want you – I’ve wanted you for so long – and I know it might seem wrong, but –”

“For so long?” Isak’s eyes widen again.

Even takes a deep breath. This is it, this is his chance, and he has to take it. There’s only hours left now, no time for him to lose. 

“Yes. I – it was like you said yesterday, that day in the tent, when I saw you for the first time – I just knew there was something about you that I couldn’t... stop thinking about. And I knew that I shouldn’t, either, but – when I got to know you, when we started talking, everyday, it’s – I’ve never felt like this before, and –”

The words fall out on top of each other, and he has to stop to catch his breath, head an incoherent mess. Even can feel his own heart race as Isak just stares at him, mouth a little open. 

“It’s the same for me,” Isak whispers. “I – I never thought I would feel this way about anyone, and then – it was you.”

Even has to swallow against the lump forming in his throat. 

How can anything feel like this, if it isn’t meant to be?

“Those days before I could have you moved up here – they were some of the worst days I’ve known,” Isak continues, breathlessly, fingers carding through Even’s hair. “Knowing that you were stuck down there, in that – hole, and I couldn’t do anything about it yet – it was horrible. Not in the same way that it must have been for you, of course not, but –”

“Don’t feel bad about it.” Even runs his hand down Isak’s side, lets it come to rest on his hip. “You can’t help who you are. You only did what you had to do.”

“I’m so sorry,” Isak whispers, and mirrors his movement, slides his hand over Even’s shoulder and then down his side under the sheet.

Even bites his lip and tries not to tense up under his touch. 

Last night, he’d been able to hide in the dark – but now, in broad daylight, Isak’s hand slowly feeling its way over the ridges of his ribs, his eyes wide and dark and serious, it’s different. 

It’s like he’s aware of every inch of his skin, of how it looks – and it makes him want to shy away. Doesn’t want Isak to see how the weeks of captivity has affected his body, doesn’t want Isak to grieve about it when he really didn’t have a choice. 

And at the same time, Isak’s touch feels so right. So soothing, like it’s piecing him together and setting everything right.

So Even bites his lip and lies still, just lets Isak stroke his skin, lets Isak’s palm and fingers warm him and tries to focus on the pleasant feel of the tingles they send through him instead.

“I don’t want to think about how you must have felt. I was so sure that you hated me,” Isak whispers. “How could you not hate me?”

“How could anyone hate you?” Even whispers back. “Everything I’ve seen of you is – you’re wonderful –”

He doesn’t get any further than that, before Isak’s lips are on his again. 

A kiss just as slow as the one before it, but not as soft – it’s deeper, hungrier, Isak’s mouth open, his breaths quicker, and soon Isak’s fingers are digging into his shoulder, tongue wet and insistent against Even’s.

The thought that Isak wants him in the same way, has wanted him for just as long – and that he sat up here for weeks, thinking that Even _hated_ him –

Even must let him know how untrue that is. 

Despite how he looks, or how unattractive he feels, he wants to give Isak everything. Wants Isak to take it, to touch him everywhere and kiss him like this for every second they have left. Wants to lose himself in Isak again, over and over, wants to have it all.

He pulls Isak closer by the hip, opens his mouth and kisses him deeper to show him that he shouldn't stop, to not worry despite everything. How much Even wants him, how he hopes Isak will never stop.

To his relief, Isak keeps kissing him back just as hungrily. As Even presses his hand to Isak’s lower back, Isak exhales roughly against his lips and rolls up on top of him, the weight of him just as comfortable and reassuring as yesterday.

But this time Isak doesn’t stop there.

Instead he kisses Even’s cheek, his jaw, his neck, before he lifts himself up on his hands to hover over Even. Breathes against the dip of his shoulder, and then softly puts his lips on his clavicle. Slowly, almost as if he wants to commit the feel of Even’s skin to memory.

He pauses to look down at Even’s naked, pale body, and Even wants to squirm under the attention – it's too much, too close, Isak shouldn’t see all of this. But Isak only bends down to kiss the dips between Even’s ribs, lips soft and warm, without blinking. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and when he lifts his face to look Even in the eyes, there’s a new sort of hunger in his eyes. 

A starved sort of look that sends a blaze of heat through Even’s stomach and makes his feet tingle, and he can feel himself hardening against Isak’s hip, sees Isak’s eyes darken as he feels it. Maybe Isak looked at him like this last night, in the dark, but he was unable to see it – and as much as Even feels vulnerable and exposed under that piercing gaze, he wants it. Wants Isak to watch his body this way, with desire, just like he's dreamed of, through all the lonely nights –

Isak’s hair shines golden in the afternoon light as he kisses down Even's chest, fingertips tracing his ribs. The feel of Isak’s warm, wet tongue against his nipple makes Even inhale, quick and sudden; the sensation so foreign and so welcome at the same time, and he barely has the sense of mind to remember that they shouldn’t make too much sound in here.

It’s just so difficult when Isak’s fingers grip his sides, firm and secure, thumbs sinking into the soft flesh of his stomach. And all the time, he keeps kissing him; down the middle of his chest, along the bow of his ribcage, lips stopping at every birthmark on his stomach.

He’s fully hard now, Isak’s face so close to his cock, and it’s exhilarating, but it also makes him a little nervous. It’s been a good while since anyone saw him like this – completely on display, no clothes, right in the sunlight.

But Isak doesn’t hesitate. 

Only lets his lips take him further down; along the path of hair below Even’s navel, hot breath against the side of his cock, and Even has to stop himself from keening into the touch and lift up against him.

Isak’s thumbs have moved down to his hip bones, his hands warm and safe as he holds them there, keeping Even in place, grounding him. As if he’s trying to reassure Even; convince him that he won’t pull back and leave Even hanging alone.

Suddenly, there’s the soft stroke of a hand over Even’s left hip, and he doesn’t have to look to know what Isak sees: the thickened, white skin where he took the fall, pale and ugly between Isak’s fingers. He bites his lip, waits for the question, but Isak doesn’t say anything. Just moves his lips over the still-sensitive skin, kisses it lightly, as if he knows that Even doesn’t want to talk about it right now.

That the only thing he wants and needs is Isak’s touch, Isak's skin on his.

Even holds his breath as Isak’s mouth gets closer and closer to his cock, and maybe Isak mistakes it for hesitancy, because he lifts his face, the air he exhales suddenly colder against the skin of Even’s lower stomach. 

“Can I?” he asks, voice rough and low and full of promise.

There’s nothing Even can do but nod.

Part of him wants to lay his head back on the pillow and close his eyes, allow himself to only _feel,_ but another, larger part wants to keep looking.

Wants to see exactly this: Isak, with his eyes locked on Even's, hands running up and down Even’s stomach before he lowers his face and kisses up the length of Even’s cock.

Even has to bite his own hand not to moan too loudly when Isak puts his lips around the head and licks it, his tongue coarse and soft at the same time.

Eyes closed, as if he's enjoying himself. As if he does this just as much for his own sake as for Even’s.

A sudden thought runs through Even's head – has Isak done this before? If so, with whom? And – did Isak look just like this? Did he enjoy it just as much, even if it was with someone else?

But when Isak goes further down, hollowing his cheeks and moaning around him, Even decides that he doesn’t care. 

He pushes every jealous thought to the back of his head, closes his eyes, and revels in the warm wetness of Isak’s mouth around him. Of Isak’s fingers clutching his hips, his curls tickling Even’s stomach as he goes down.

Small white dots flutter before his eyes as Isak flattens his tongue against the underside, and he spreads his legs, lets Isak settle between them and make himself comfortable.

As if he belongs there.

One of Isak’s hands comes down to stroke around his balls, his fingers light and firm at the same time, and it tickles at something inside Even’s very core, pleasant tingles spreading through his belly and all the way up into his chest.

He bites down on his own knuckles, the other hand reaching for something to hold on to, to stay in the moment and not float away. He finds Isak’s shoulder, strong and firm under his fingers, and moves his fingers to Isak’s neck, feeling the muscles tense and relax with every movement of his head.

Even can’t resist repeating what he did last night; cards his fingers through Isak’s hair and curls them. Only lightly, but enough to make Isak let out a strangled, deep sound, vibrations traveling through Even’s cock and all the way to the end of his spine. 

Toes tingling, Even bites down harder on his own hand to keep his moans from echoing through the room, tries to keep his hips still and not take Isak by surprise.

And almost as if Isak could guess what Even’s thinking, he grabs on harder to his hips and holds him down, and Even’s never felt so safe, so cared for, so absolutely sure in the knowledge that Isak won’t let him go. That he’ll take care of him and give him what he wants.

Sighing, he releases his hand from his mouth, lets it find its way to Isak’s shoulder, stroking it to give back just a little of the closeness and comfort Isak gives him.

Isak must feel the encouragement in his touch, because the next time he goes all the way down. Makes Even’s head spin as the barely-there stubble on Isak’s chin scrapes against his groin, and he hopes that it’ll still burn tomorrow. 

That the skin there will be red and tender even after Isak has left. Something to remind him of this through all the lonely days and nights to come. 

As if Isak could leave his mark on him. Something even more palpable than his weight on top of him, something as permanent as the scar on Isak’s shoulder.

And just like that, he knows that he doesn’t want to come like this. Not this time.

With a not so small effort, he grabs hold of Isak’s hair with both hands, lifts his face up and holds it between his palms. Studies his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks. 

“I want you so much, please –” Even licks his lips. “– I want you, I want – everything.”

“Everything?” Isak’s voice is low, rough, dark from want.

Even nods, fingers curling in Isak’s hair, feet kicking off the sheet still covering his legs, nothing more between them. “Will you let me feel you… inside of me?” 

“You want that?” Isak’s eyes widen as he lifts his eyebrows, and he licks his lips as he crawls up over Even, covering his body with his own.

Even swallows. He has done this before, a few times – but never as the receiving part. Doing _that_ in the swift, meaningless encounters out in the field wouldn’t befit a prince – and besides, he’s never felt comfortable enough for it.

But in this moment, he’s sure. Surer than he’s ever been. If he's ever going to, this is the time and the place. 

Here and now, with Isak. Even if it’s only once, and never again.

“Please,” he whispers. 

Isak smiles softly, strokes his cheek and kisses him on the lips. Quickly, before he shuffles off the bed and picks up something from the heap of clothes on the chair.

“Just lie back,” Isak whispers as he crawls on top of him again. “I’ll take care of you.”

The promise makes Even’s heart pick up, makes him lift his face up to kiss Isak again, and Isak sighs on his lips, strokes his shoulder with his palm and hums.

Kisses his way down to Even’s jaw, then down his neck and chest again. Only this time it’s quicker, without detours, not stopping at Even’s nipples or the dip below his ribs, just letting his nose and lips slide down Even's stomach towards his crotch, and the light, wet touch makes a sweat break out on Even's neck, tickling at the nape. 

Soft, strong hands grab Even’s thighs, slowly pushing them apart, Isak’s palms stroking down and up their insides.

Isak must take for granted that Even’s never done this before, because he says, in a low voice, breath warm against the inside of his thigh, “Just tell me if it doesn’t feel right.”

“I will,” Even whispers back, “I promise. I just – I trust you.”

He swears he can feel the hint of a smile against his skin, and then Isak traces a fingertip down between his cheeks, slick and easy – probably some kind of oil, and Even’s pulse quickens as he realizes that Isak must have brought it back with him as he returned here earlier. That he’d hoped for something like this to happen, and planned for it.

The sensation when Isak's finger slides over his rim is similar to when Even's tried it himself – only more. More exciting in its unpredictability, the knowledge that he isn’t in control now. That Isak is the one who'll make sure that he'll get what he wants.

Isak’s breath is hot against Even's groin as a fingertip slides inside slowly, carefully, and Isak's grip on his thigh tightens as Even exhales, giving in to the pressure and letting Isak in.

It makes Even want to relax even more, to let Isak know that he’s not afraid. How he wants to give himself to him completely, let Isak take everything from him and claim him as his own.

He can feel himself giving way to Isak, feels him moving on the inside, much further in than he himself has ever reached, and it’s a foreign feeling, but at the same time it’s so right.

Makes him wonder how it’ll feel when he finally has all of Isak inside of him.

He reaches down with one hand and lifts his knee to the side, to show Isak that he mustn't hesitate. 

“Even,” Isak breathes, his voice hoarse and cracked, full of surprise and something that sounds like admiration. And then, Even feels him comply; feels the blunt pressure of something more, another fingertip, pressing inside of him.

It’s a strange feeling – not entirely pleasurable, but not uncomfortable either. However, the knowledge that it’s _Isak_ who does it – Isak, who kisses his stomach, who runs his hand along the soft hairs on the inside of his knee – makes him lie still and wait in anticipation for what'll come next.

Isak's warm tongue licks along the side of his cock and then, with a tug in Even's stomach, he feels how Isak presses his fingers all the way inside, stretching him, filling him up.

It’s almost overwhelming; the tight pressure inside of him, the tingling warmth of Isak licking over the head of his cock, the sunlight shining red through his eyelids, the scraping of the sheets against his neck as he bends his head back, trying to sort through everything that runs through him –

“Is it okay?” Isak whispers, chin scraping lightly on Even’s stomach.

Even nods again, before he realizes that Isak maybe can’t see it. “Yes,” he breathes, “just – it’s so much.”

Slowly, Isak wedges his way up his body, and, fingers still inside of him, leans down and kisses Even on the mouth.

Maybe it should bother him to have Isak’s lips on his right now, considering where they’ve just been, but – it doesn’t. The fact that Isak doesn’t hesitate to let him taste himself in his mouth, that he lets his tongue sweep over Even’s without holding back – there’s a trust and understanding in it that makes a warmth spread through Even’s chest.

At the same time as Isak pushes his tongue into his mouth, he presses his fingers in deeper, so deep that his knuckles push against Even’s skin, and Even knows that this means he’s almost ready. 

That soon, he’ll have Isak as close as he can possibly get.

The thought makes him moan into Isak’s mouth, makes him pull his leg further up, and Isak responds with slipping his arm behind Even’s neck, holding him. Closer, pressing their bodies together tightly while he moves his fingers in and out, and Even grabs his hair, clings to him with one hand and holds himself open with the other.

Isak licks into his mouth one last time before he pulls back, hair damp and dark from sweat at the roots, gaze soft as he strokes a thumb along Even’s cheekbone. 

He doesn’t have to ask, and Even doesn’t have to tell – Isak just looks at him with soft eyes, caresses Even's cheek with his palm and smiles.

As Isak puts his lips on his again, Even can feel the fingers inside him pull out slowly, a strange emptiness in their wake. He hears himself make a constrained sound in his throat, and Isak strokes his jaw. “Shh. I’ll take care of you.”

“I know.” It’s barely a whisper, but he can see from the way Isak’s lip curls that he heard it.

Then, Isak sits up and shuffles backwards a little. Puts his hand on top of Even’s on his angled out knee before he puts his weight on the hand lodged on the mattress next to Even’s head, gaze locked on his. Interlaces Even’s fingers with his own, the weight of their combined hands on the inside of Even's thigh an anchor; drawing focus from the blunt pressure against his rim as Isak leans over him. 

And _this_ is so much more than when he’s experimented on himself; definitely on the verge of too much. But, to his surprise, he finds he doesn’t mind it. 

He can feel everything in his being gravitate towards the overwhelming stretch when Isak slowly, carefully pushes inside. Every shallow breath he takes, every millimeter Isak inches further and further in takes him out of his scattered mind and into his body; makes the memories of the lonely nights in the dark cell fade and dissolve, left behind with everything else that doesn’t matter anymore.

Makes him forget what has happened, what might come, where they are and what will happen to them after today. 

There’s nothing but this; this and them, and the encompassing feeling of _Isak_ everywhere, almost fully inside him now, surrounding him with his body, his scent, the sound of his ragged breaths.

And all the time, Isak’s eyes are on him. Attentive, like they’re picking up every single detail, any sign that Even doesn’t want this, that he’d want him to stop.

Even never wants him to. 

He lifts his free hand and traces Isak’s cheekbone with his thumb, lets it slip inside at the corner of his mouth and follow the bottom line of his teeth. Feels the stretch increasing as Isak presses further inside on a long, drawn-out exhale.

The tip of Isak’s tongue is wet and warm against the pad of his thumb, and he can’t resist sliding it across his lower lip, pulling at it, letting his thumb draw a wet line down Isak’s chin, follow his jaw and grab his neck.

Even watches Isak’s eyes darken, feels the coarse hairs of Isak’s crotch against his skin. Licks his lips and marvels at the fact that Isak is finally fully inside of him, strokes his hand down Isak’s back, the bumps of his spine leading him all the way down, down until he can put his palm on the small of his back and press him closer. 

Isak’s eyelashes flutter as Even lifts his hips, tries to pull him as far inside as he can. He wants to live on this edge forever, wants Isak to make him forget who he is, who _they_ are. Make them exist only like this, suspended in time, separated from everything else.

The hand on the back of Even’s knee presses down as Isak pulls back a little, only to push in again just as deep. Eyes locked on Even’s as he does it again, and Even hears himself moan, feels everything inside him shift, make space for Isak and let him in. All the way inside.

As Isak pushes in again, and again, Even feels the burn of the stretch subside, and he tries to chase it – doesn’t want to let that overwhelming, encompassing feeling go just yet. Bucks his hips up fruitlessly until it’s slowly replaced by something else; something that lacks that sharp edge, but is made of pleasure only. 

A wholly different feeling than anything he’s ever known, radiating from where Isak is connected to him and out into his every limb, every toe and finger. He lays his head back, wants to focus only on the slide of Isak out of and into him, on the way he pulls out slowly and pushes inside faster.

Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Isak’s ragged breaths, or maybe they’re his own – shorter and more strained with every thrust. The pants get louder, and then Isak’s lips are on his again; a desperate, uncoordinated kiss, made only of tongue and teeth and the desire to be close.

Even lifts his leg up, puts it on top of Isak’s lower back, throws his arm around his shoulder and pulls him in deeper. They’re entangled in every way now, so close, and still, there’s something urging him on in the pit of his stomach, something restless, unsettled, screaming for _more._

It comes out as a strangled whine against Isak’s lips, and he lifts his face, looks Even in the eyes and tightens the grip on his leg. Hand on Even’s cheek, he sits up, palm slowly moving down Even’s chest. 

Isak reaches so much deeper like this – the position giving him more leverage, knees on either side of Even’s hips – and when he pulls almost all the way out and sinks in again, he hits something deep down in there that sends little sparks all the way down into the pit of Even’s stomach.

As Isak does it again, the feeling builds – a little more each time, slowly but inevitably, and Even doesn't know what to compare it to. The only thing he knows is that he wants to fall over the edge like this, and, at the same time, wants it to never stop.

Isak towers over him, wet curls plastered to his forehead, shoulders wide, hand strong and secure on Even’s leg, the muscles of his stomach contracting with every push, and Even whines at the sight, an odd sound from somewhere deep down in his throat.

And then Isak’s free hand travels from his chest further down, below his navel, to finally wrap around his cock.

The sensation of Isak filling him up, stretching him out and surrounding him all at once makes Even’s head spin, and as much as he wants to keep watching Isak, he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He can feel himself start to float away, as if he’s dissolving at the edges, as if he doesn’t know where he starts and Isak begins, a perpetual loop of give and take without beginning or end. 

And just like that, with Isak's hand around him, hardly remembering his own name, he tips over.

It rolls like a wave from his belly out into his whole being, the soles of his feet tingling, the hairs on his head standing up as a high-pitched whine slips out of his mouth, and he feels something wet hit his chest. Feels Isak move inside of him, deep and slow and so, so hard, hitting that spot over and over with his hand still fisted tight around Even’s cock.

It feels like Even’s whole body’s lit up from the inside, warmth and pleasure washing through him, and he hears Isak moan loudly before he presses himself into Even, as deep as he can go. It’s on the verge of too much, but at the same time, Even wants nothing else than to have Isak right there. As close as they'll get, and Even feels hot all over with the thought that maybe he’ll be able to still feel this tomorrow, or even the day after. Just like he wanted to.

A few hard, deep thrusts and then Isak stills, eyes closed as he towers over Even, the sweat on his chest shining, cheeks flushed, hair a golden mess.

Even has never seen anything more breathtaking in his life.

His heart skips a beat when Isak finally opens his eyes, releases Even's leg and leans his weight forward to rest their foreheads together.

And then, Isak lets out a short laugh and kisses him. Slow and light, as if they have all the time in the world. 

Joints stiff from being held in the same position for so long, Even stretches out his legs, and Isak lies down on top him, seemingly without a thought of how sticky and sweaty they both are. Even doesn’t mind, either – only wants the closeness of Isak’s body, warm and safe on top of his, the fast, heavy beating of his heart against his chest. 

The sweat is starting to cool on Even’s skin, and he can feel small goosebumps starting to form on his arm, a shiver running through him involuntarily. As he opens his eyes, he can see that the sun has started to set, making the chill in the air of the room more noticeable, the falling darkness another reminder of how little time they have left.

He swats the thought away and runs his palm down Isak’s spine instead, cards the fingers of his other hand into Isak’s hair, and holds on. 

Right now, there’s nothing he wants to think about but their skin against each other, nothing but the slightly chafing feeling of Isak still half-hard inside of him, warm seed leaking out when he shifts his body a little.

If he could, he’d keep it in there forever.

Neither of them say anything – it isn’t necessary. They both know what the other is thinking. What neither of them wants to talk about.

They just lie there, Isak’s face in the crook of Even’s neck, fingers playing with a lock of hair behind Even’s ear, Even’s hand traveling up and down his back while darkness falls around them, shielding them from the world for a little while more.

Eventually, it’s fully dark, the only source of light the clouded moonlight falling in through the window, reflected in Isak’s eyes. They kiss, on and off, hands running over each other’s bodies, as if none of them wants to leave a single patch of skin untouched. Limbs entangled, they breathe in each other, the skin on their chests touching with every inhale. 

The coarse hairs on Isak’s legs tickle his own, and Even tries to commit it to his memory; preserve all the small details, wants to remember them if he’ll never feel them again.

They only talk a little, on and off, Isak’s voice hushed and full of awe over that they _actually did that._

Even’s never been touched like this before. Has never had someone run their hands all over him for hours, only because they _wanted_ to. Never with the purpose of getting off as soon as possible or just to rid him of his clothes. 

And no one has ever looked at him like this; unabashedly, without shyness or hesitation, only with softness and care. He thinks of the hunger in Isak’s eyes as he’d hovered over him before he made love to him, and his heart sings and aches at the same time. 

He’d never imagined that there could be someone like this out there for him. Someone who could let him have it all. 

* * *

“I wish so much that I didn’t have to leave tomorrow,” Isak whispers, eyes following his fingers running along Even’s arm, hours later. “I know that I’m going to Vestvik only so that you can be released, and of course I want you to be free and – live your life and all, but... I’m so scared. Imagine – if I'll never see you again.”

Part of Even wants to protest – there’s maybe nothing in his whole life that has felt this _right._ But he knows just as well as Isak does that this isn’t theirs. That this isn’t meant for them.

“There’s this summer palace that we have, pretty close to your border,” Isak continues, licking his lip. “I wish I could take you there – it’s so beautiful, and there’s woods around it, and – and a garden. With roses. You would love it.”

Suddenly, there’s a lump forming in Even’s throat, clogging it up as he tries to swallow. “I – I wish you could, too.”

“Maybe, one day, we could go there together.” Isak finger traces his eyebrow, his hairline, his ear. “I can’t live with the thought that – that we won’t get to have this again.”

Even swallows again, tries to push away the image of a vast, Isak-less future, grey and without meaning. But he gets it – even if the thought is futile, even if they can never have each other – imagining a world where this never happened, where Isak doesn’t exist, is even worse.

“Me neither.” He keeps his gaze locked on Isak’s, his eyes big and dark in the faint moonlight from the window. “Maybe – one day.”

“One day,” Isak whispers, the corner of his mouth curling upwards and eyelids falling shut as Even smiles, and cards his fingers through his hair.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Already two-thirds in? I can't believe it either. There's still a lot left to happen in this fic, though – I'll let you get to it!
> 
> ❤️

When the sky starts turning grey outside the window, Isak takes his hand.

Holds it, and runs his thumb over the tendons on the back.

They’ve barely slept – every time Even’s felt his body start to sink into the mattress, his limbs have jerked him awake. As if his mind has decided to take control, to not let him waste a single second.

Isak’s eyes are bleary, dark circles underneath them, his eyelids a little swollen as he kisses Even’s knuckles one by one.

It feels like there’s nothing more to say in this moment, and at the same time as if they have a thousand things to talk about.

Isak’s hand on his cheek is warm, the leg slung over Even’s hip heavy, and Even knows it’s just a matter of minutes now.

Still, he startles as the horn blasts from the courtyard outside, cutting through the silence.

Even if he doesn’t want to, he closes his eyes as Isak kisses him. Feels Isak’s fingers at his temples, lips soft, breath alive and warm on his mouth.

Next thing, Isak’s standing on the floor, pulling his clothes on, Even sitting in the bed, watching him in silence.

One last kiss, Isak’s fingers around his neck, his eyelashes tickling the bridge of Even’s nose, and then he’s gone.

Part of Even wants to watch from the window, wants to hold onto the last little fragment of Isak, but he knows it isn’t a good idea.

After a while, he hears the gates opening and the horn blow once more. He sits still on the bed, listening to the clatter of hooves as the men ride out, while the sky outside the window keeps getting brighter.

* * *

He can’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because the next thing he knows is that he’s blinking awake in the midday sun, limbs heavy, mouth dry from the kind of deep sleep where you don’t move at all.

The room is silent, the air still, and the bed is wide and empty beside him.

As he turns, there’s a stiffness in his thighs, a sudden discomfort blazing through his groin, and he exhales. 

The sheets on the bed are still wrinkled, the covers tangled up, and he grabs the pillow beside him and closes his eyes. Imagines that he can feel Isak’s scent on it, even if he he probably can’t; too many hours have passed, too much distance between them.

Most of all, he’d like to go back to sleep, but he can feel in his whole body that he won’t be able to. Even if he stayed awake for almost the whole night and most of the day before, he’s slept too heavily, his mind too busy.

He debates going to the bathroom to clean up, but decides against it. Even if he should, he doesn’t want to rid himself of everything _Isak_ just yet.

Instead, he turns over on his back, stares at the canopy above, and tries to decide where Isak might be right now.

Even’s never ridden straight between their capitals, only traveled with small companies along the border. Or, right before he was captured, with the large, slow army across the northern plains. 

It’s probably at least three days – maybe four – alone, on a good horse.

He hopes Isak doesn’t fare too badly from their sleepless night. That he’ll be able to rest, that he’ll arrive safely.

Hopes that he’ll be received without threats or swords pointed at him. 

Once again, he wonders what the negotiations will be about, and what they’ll lead to. There’s no reason for him to doubt that Isak was truthful when he said he didn’t know – it did sound like he was, and Even doesn’t want to believe that Isak would lie to him.

He really doesn’t.

He tries to picture Isak walking the corridors of his family’s castle, of his home. Imagines him standing guard outside the council room. Imposing and stern in his armour, just like the first time Even saw him. Standing in one of the windows in the upper gallery, looking out at the sea. 

Wonder if Isak will encounter any of his friends. They’ll be his enemies – without the slightest idea of what Isak means to Even, who he is. To them, he’ll only be the foreign and cruel warlord, someone who’s come there to intimidate them.

In reality, Even wishes for them to keep Isak safe. To make sure everything goes smoothly, and that Isak will come back to him unharmed.

With a peace treaty. That’s what he wants. What he _must_ want, for his people’s sake. Even if it means that he has to leave Isak behind.

* * *

When darkness starts to fall, he finally crawls out of bed to see his clothes neatly folded on top of the chair. The chair where he’s sat and talked to Isak for so many hours.

When he realizes that he hasn’t really left the bed since they fell into it after coming back from the garden, he almost smiles.

Nobody’s been in here but Isak since then, which means it must have been him who’s taken care of his clothes. Laid them there as Even was sleeping. Perhaps before he undressed and crawled into the bed beside him yesterday.

It should be ridiculous, but it feels important, significant, that he puts on the same clothes as he wore when he last saw Isak. He ties his shirt slowly, tries to remember what it felt like when Isak had opened it. How the fabric of Isak’s shirt, in turn, had bunched up at his thumbs as he lifted it to pull it off.

Looking around the room, he sighs. It’s no use pretending that everything in this room isn’t going to remind him of Isak.

No matter how long he’ll be gone.

The same moment he closes the top button of the green jacket, there’s a soft knock on the door. 

He stills. For a fragment of a second, the only thought in his mind is that there’s been a change of plans, that Isak has come back.

Then he thinks better of it, and realizes that there’s only one person it could be.

And, sure enough, after a moment’s silence, he hears the key turn in the lock and Jonas enters, a wary look on his face and a cloth bundle in his hand.

“Your Highness,” Jonas says with a curt nod, and closes the door behind him.

Even straightens his back. “Jonas.”

“I, ehm,” Jonas begins. “I believe, sir, that Prince might have told you that I’ll be keeping guard over you for a while.”

“He… has,” Even says, and swallows. 

Jonas nods again, this time to the bundle in his hand. “I’ve brought some food.” 

Even glances at the table, and clears his throat. “Thank you. You can – please, set it there.”

As Jonas sets the bundle down and starts placing its contents on the table, Even bites his lip.

If this was a formal visit, Even would have known just what to do. Would have let Jonas do his task, then thanked him and let him leave.

Now, however, he’s more unsure.

It’s obvious that Even’s not a royal guest, but he’s maybe not a regular prisoner, either.

Since the second time Jonas brought him up here, snuck him through the labyrinth and dungeons and up the hidden set of stairs, Even hasn’t seen him, and has no idea how much he knows.

Even if he knows that it probably doesn’t show, it’s hard to believe that his whole appearance doesn’t scream of Isak. Of what has happened in here. What they did last night.

Jonas is probably still the only one who knows that Even is being held up here, at least – but has Isak told him more than that? 

All he knows is that, with Isak gone, Jonas is probably the closest thing he has to a friend, or at least some sort of ally here. Someone who might give him news of Isak, of Even’s status, who might receive news on how the expedition to Even’s hometown plays out.

“Isak… His Highness… he told me that he’s going to Vestvik. To negotiate.” Even holds his breath as Jonas straightens up and turns towards him.

“He is,” Jonas says, hands joined behind his back, gaze fixed on the floor in front of him. 

Even bites the tip of his tongue. “If you – if you hear anything of how it goes, or what happens… would you please tell me?”

Jonas glances up at him, eyes a little wary, but not unkind. “It is really not my place, sir.” 

“I know,” Even says, heart beating quickly. “And I don’t mean – anything that could compromise you, or your people, but –”

He looks to the window.

“If they get there as they should,” he manages, hoping that his words doesn’t give too much away. “If my family… if they’re doing fine.”

Jonas gives him a long, lingering look, silence stretching between them.

“I can do that,” Jonas says, eventually. “I doubt that I’ll know more than anyone else in this castle but – I can understand that you will want to know if there’s anything to tell.”

The look on Jonas’ face is serious, but hard to read apart from that. 

“Thank you,” Even says, and watches Jonas straighten up, as if he’s waiting for Even’s dismissal. 

Even if Even mostly just wants to be alone, there’s nothing else in here to distract him. Nothing to fill out the long, empty hours ahead of him.

“Do you want to – stay for a bit? Unless you have other things to attend to?” He gestures to the fruit and the decanter of wine standing on the table. “I know it might seem odd, but – I could use some company.”

“If it pleases you, sir, I can,” Jonas says with a small smile, and sits down in the chair closest to the door, the one Isak usually sits in. 

_Used to_ sit in.

Even’s not particularly hungry, even if many hours must have passed since he last ate – there’s far too many thoughts creeping under his skin for him to feel the urge to eat – but he knows he should. So he picks up a piece of bread from the table, and starts to chew.

Somehow, it’s oddly comforting sitting here with Jonas. Even if they don’t know each other, he has kind of the same feeling as when he read through Isak’s old favourite books. That he has some sort of connection with Isak through something or someone important to him, from a distance.

“Have you – have you lived here for a long time?” Even asks, eventually.

Jonas casts him a sideways glance and folds his hands together in his lap, before he answers. “Since I was fourteen. My father has been a guard for the royal family since he was young, so I... sort of grew up here.”

“And have you… have you always been stationed with the prince? Isak?” Even bites his lip. 

Jonas looks up at him, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “We’ve been friends since we were little, and… it was sort of natural that I should become one of the prince’s personal guards when I came of age.”

“But you’re obliged to do what he asks of you.” It slips out before Even can stop it. _Like guarding me._

“As if anybody’s free to do want they want in life.” Jonas laughs, dry and short, before he looks Even in the eyes. “But – what’s important to Prince Isak is important to me.”

Even’s heart beats a little faster. _How much does Jonas know?_

Isak had said that he didn’t know what the offer they’d made had contained, and Even had believed him. Still believes him. It was one thing not to pressure Isak about it, however – and even if Jonas probably doesn’t know more about it than him, he cannot help but ask.

“Do you – do you know anything about what they’ll be discussing? I know you maybe cannot tell me, but…” His words trail off into the silence, and Jonas raises his chin, looking at the tapestry in front of them before he turns to Even.

“Honestly? I have no idea, sir. And I doubt that the prince does, either.” 

“Do you – do you think they’ll succeed? With their demands, I mean? Isak and… the king?”

Jonas clears his throat, before he looks down at his hands, and then up at Even again. “I… I should not tell you too much, but – I seriously doubt that His Majesty would have travelled there if they weren’t hopeful about the outcome.”

Even licks his lips. “Perhaps it’s in everybody’s – interest to come to an agreement. Even if it’s – mostly in my family’s interest to find some sort of common ground, since I’m the one kept captive. And I do not know how willing your king, or your prince, would be to compromise, or –”

“With all due respect, sir,” Jonas says, and suddenly, his voice has a new tone of sharpness in it. As Even turns his head, he can see Jonas looking straight at him, as if emphasizing his words with the dark line of his eyebrows. “You do not know the lengths Prince Isak has gone to to ensure your safety here.”

Even’s breath hitches in his throat. “What – what do you mean?”

“There has not been a single day without bloodshed or threats in this city ever since you were brought here,” Jonas says, grey eyes fixed on Even’s, every word spoken with emphasis. “Many powerful families have had to pay the price for threatening to endanger an alliance between our countries. And Prince Isak has personally made sure that not a single person could so much as come close to you, or pose any sort of threat to your life.”

_Have had to pay the price?_

“This is a chance that His Majesty has been waiting for for many years,” Jonas continues. “He is not going to waste it, I can assure you that.”

Even swallows, and thinks of the cuts on Isak’s hands, the gash on his wrist. 

Has Isak threatened – _killed_ – other people for his sake? 

“I – I didn’t know that,” he manages, finally.

Jonas’ features softens as he watches Even, shoulders sinking down again, the smile creeping back onto his face. “It’s like I said, I’ve known the prince for many years, and I – he’s seldom this fierce about anything. I know he has a reputation for being – uncompromising, and you might have understood that he has a sharp head, but – but also a big heart. When it comes to things he cares about.”

Again, Even swallows. Watches Jonas’ unfaltering gaze, the serious expression on his face. “I – I know.”

Neither of them say anything else for a while, Even picking at the bread in his hands, Jonas’ eyes flickering up to him and then across the room. Even wonders if he notices the wrinkles in the sheets, the sunken-in pillows at the head of the bed. 

Suddenly, the sound of the horn outside blasts through the silence.

Again, the first thing that runs through his mind is _Isak_ – even if he knows it’s far too early for him to return, that he’s probably not even halfway _there_ yet – but he watches Jonas stand up, a crease between his eyebrows as he walks in the direction of the window.

Jonas stops while he’s still halfway hidden behind the curtain, a watchful expression on his face. Even rises slowly, coming to stand on the other side of the window, letting an eye peek out through the sliver between the wall and the fabric.

Just like the time he watched Isak and his father meet down in the courtyard.

Today, however, he doesn’t recognize any of the helmet-clad guards standing at the gate, or down in the gallery.

But there’s no mistaking who the young woman getting off her horse in the middle of the courtyard is.

She’s even present in this very room, on the tapestry behind them – auburn hair streaming down her shoulders as she removes her helmet and shakes her head. With a smile, she hands the helmet to the nearest guard and says something – and the guard bows quickly, and takes the horse’s reins without hesitation.

Eva doesn’t have much in common with Isak when it comes to looks – she’s much shorter, her complexion darker – but her beauty is still striking, even from this distance, rosy cheeks shining as she strides towards the gallery below. 

Quickly, Even glances up at Jonas. Watches his attentive gaze on the scenery below. His pursed lips, and the way his fingers pick at the seam of his jacket.

Standing like this, there’s something to Jonas’ demeanor that wasn’t there before. A small smile, a change in posture, something less composed, a new softness at the corners of his eyes.

Suddenly, Even starts to suspect he’s maybe not the only one in the room who knows what it’s like to want someone you cannot have.

* * *

Jonas excuses himself shortly after that, leaving Even with a couple of apples on the table and a hundred questions swimming in his head.

_The lengths Prince Isak has gone to to protect your safety._

He sits in the chair, turning an apple over in his hands, watching one of the books Isak brought him on the nightstand, and wonders if Jonas noticed it lying there.

If Isak has told him anything, and if he hasn’t, how much Jonas might have guessed anyway. 

_When it comes to things he cares about._

Things? Like the peace treaty? 

Or _him?_

* * *

The following days pass by mostly in silence. 

Jonas comes by with more food a few more times, and they talk for a short while. About nothing, horses, the weather, war. Occasionally Isak, and the mission he’s on, but only touching on the subject before either Jonas or Even draw back and steer the conversation into safer waters. Jonas doesn’t let on that he knows anything, and still, Even’s heart beats quickly in his throat for a long while every time Jonas visits.

In a different time and place, he would probably have liked Jonas. Known him as a friend, even. He seems kind, open, attentive.

Just like Isak proved to be when Even had gotten to know him.

He doesn’t dare talk more about Isak with Jonas than he already has – afraid that his face or his gestures will give him away.

Instead, he pokes at the rest of the royal family – Isak’s mother, his sisters, the crown princess and her children. Not that Jonas is too talkative – he has, of course, good reason to be wary around him.

The hours when Even’s left alone, however, are agonizingly slow. Still tense with expectation, with a constant buzzing in the periphery of Even’s vision. As though there’d be something important there if he turned his head quickly enough, something just out of his reach.

As the days drag themselves forward, the discomfort in his thighs and groin diminishes, until it’s gone completely. Getting out of bed, he tries to conjure it up, but comes up short.

The only proof he still has that Isak has been here, inside this room, inside of him, is in his head.

Apart from the constant churning of _Isak_ in his head, it’s quiet.

And then, suddenly, on the morning of the seventh day, Jonas barges into his room with a heap of neatly folded clothes in his hands and a flush on his cheeks. There’s a new kind of urgency in how he closes the door, and Even knows what Jonas is going to say even before he speaks.

“There’s been a raven from the king. Get ready, I’ll wait outside.”

It’s not until Jonas is outside that Even sees what the bundle on the bed really is.

His own clothes, the blue ones he wore when he was captured. Washed, clean, and mended. It can only mean one thing.

He’s going home.

* * *

His whole body feels like it’s on fire where he stands beside Jonas in the courtyard. His limbs jittery, breaths short in his chest, a faint buzz singing in his ears.

It’s his first time outside since his night with Isak in the garden, and everything feels new and foreign – morning sun beating on his forehead, the blue jacket wider around his chest than the last time he wore it. 

His fingers twitch by his side as the horn sounds from the parapets above, stomach prickling as the guards beside the gate rush to open it.

The first thing that becomes visible through the slowly opening gates is a tall figure on a horse, a dark shape in the shadows of the ramparts and the sharp sunlight in Even’s eyes.

Then another horsed figure, and another. 

Until the party rides into the bright courtyard, and Even’s heart does this little jump that he’s become familiar with over the past few weeks.

A jump that transforms into a steady, quick rhythm as Isak comes into view. Although Even can’t make out his face from this distance, he knows it’s him right away; straight-backed in his armour, helmetless, golden curls shining in the sunlight.

To his left, broad-shouldered and grey, only slightly more hunched, King Terje.

And, on their sides, surrounded by guardsmen Even doesn’t recognize, two tall, dark-haired men who he knows immediately from their shapes alone.

The grins on Yousef’s and Mutta’s faces are broader than he’s ever seen them, blue mantles streaming down from their shoulders as they approach. He does his best to lift the corners of his mouth up in a reciprocating smile, but it’s like his body’s forgotten – it comes out stilted, as if the angle is wrong, like there’s no connection between what he feels and what he should feel.

And when he lets his gaze find its way over to Isak’s face, he can feel his attempt at a smile fall completely.

His face is pale, his eyes dark, and the look on them inscrutable. Gaze unwavering, fastened on Even, lips pursed in a straight line.

When king Terje is just a few steps in front of Even he stops his horse, and the rest of the men follow suit. Isak looks down at his hands, and that’s when Even remembers that they’re not supposed to know each other.

As far as all the others know, they haven’t even talked. Only a couple of sentences in the tent on the battlefield – and apart from that, he’s barely supposed to know who Isak is.

He’s supposed to have been sitting down in the dungeon, interacting with absolutely no one. 

Especially not Isak.

He’s not supposed to look at Isak’s hands, loosely holding onto the reins, and remember what they felt like on his body. Nor how strong and safe Isak’s arms had been as he held him, or how the scent of him lingered on Even’s skin for days after he’d left. 

But is Isak supposed to look at _him_ like this? As if he doesn’t know him, as if he has no idea what Even looks like without clothes, spread out for him on the sheets? As if he hadn’t made Even gasp and moan and dig his fingers into his back?

Even knows Isak’s eyes shouldn’t be this blank, and that he shouldn’t wear this hard expression as he looks from Even to Jonas, and then nods.

But he also knows, just like he knew when they laid in bed together on their final night, that this isn't a question of choice. Not for either of them. 

That this is the way it has to be. 

A movement beside him makes him turn his head, and Jonas takes a step forward and turns so that he’s facing Even. And then, he hooks something off his belt by his hip, something that’s been obscured by his mantle until now.

But there’s no mistaking the long, ornamented sheath that Jonas gives over to Isak.

“I release you from your promise,” Isak’s voice says, and it’s impossible to say if it breaks already in his throat, or if it’s Even’s hearing that distorts it. “You’re free to go, and – to take your sword.”

The silver-wrought handle looks every bit familiar, but it still has a foreign shape in his hand, the weight of it uncomfortable by his side as he hooks it to his belt.

As if he’s not the same person now as when he last carried it.

There’s the clearing of a throat beside him, and he turns, a guard holding out the reins of a grey horse, and it takes a moment for Even to catch on.

The horse is for him.

Sitting up, he sees the king turn towards him, his sharp jaw tense as he nods. And then, one last look at Isak.

Isak’s mouth, just a little open, the gap in his teeth barely visible behind the dip of his lip. His cheeks flushed, perhaps from the ride, or from the sun. His shoulders squared, tense, every bit the shape of the commander that Even encountered that first time in the tent.

But his eyes are wide, dark, and much, much softer than a moment ago, when he swallows. 

“Goodbye, Even,” he says in a low, hoarse voice, before he turns his horse, and follows his father into the gallery.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments on the latest chapter, and all your thoughts and theories on what's going to happen next in this fic! It is a true delight to read them all and to interact with you lovely lovely readers ❤️
> 
> I'm on holiday this week so I might take a little longer than usual to respond to comments – just know that I read and re-read and cherish every single one ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> And now, a much awaited check-in on how Even is doing. Enjoy!

The sight of his hometown should fill him with joy. It really should.

The steep mountains framing the narrow bay, the sea shining in pink, reflecting the evening sky, the castle rising behind the high city walls –

It’s familiar, everything he’s ever known. Safety at last. _Home._

But, sitting on the back of the gray horse, on the top of the slope leading down to the capital, the truth is that he doesn’t have a clue how he feels.

His whole being feels numb, and at the same time there’s a thousand emotions whirling around inside him. He doesn’t know if he wants to go back, or just keep riding, onward and onward, until he’s left everything behind.

Three days and two nights have passed since his departure, and he’s certain that his friends have noticed that everything isn’t as it should be.

They’ve probably written his silence and distractedness off as a natural consequence of his captivity. That his unwillingness to talk has been due to everything he needs to process, the ordeal he’s been through. 

And they seem to have accepted that, or at least left Even the space they must have assumed that he’s needed. There’s been a few careful questions here and there, but nothing prying, no interrogations, and he’s more than thankful for it. Only once, as they sat down to rest by the fire, Yousef had started talking about the journey from their home to Bergheim and mentioned how terrified he’d been at just a glance from _the warrior prince._

Both him and Mutta must have noticed how Even’s shoulders had tensed at the mere mention of Isak. They’d probably thought it had brought out unwanted memories, because they’d fallen silent soon after, and haven’t touched upon the subject again.

For the rest of the ride, there’s been silence, hard riding, and hands clapped on his back with closed-mouthed smiles.

And now, he can’t help but long for solitude again.

If he’s going to be alone, it’s alone he wants to be. He’s not sure for how much longer he’ll be able to get away with this silence, these muttered words. If he’ll be capable to muster up the facade of the joyous, relieved homecoming prince when he’s finally home.

As they make their way down the valley sloping down to the city gates, he wonders, not for the first time, what the deal his parents have made with Isak’s father really contains. Mutta and Yousef had just shrugged when he’d asked – as expected – and told him they had no idea. That they’d only been summoned to the courtroom and ordered to ride with king Terje and his men and then bring Even back.

He wonders if he’ll know everything about it in time. If his father will tell him if he asks. 

The sun’s already set behind the mountain ridges when the horn sounds. That long, high-pitched tone that always sent him running to the parapets when he was a child.

As they approach the opening gates, the broad grins on the guards’ faces are easy to spot despite the falling dusk.

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” one of them says, and salutes Even before he moves to the side, allowing him and his men to pass. 

The returning smile on his own lips feels as stiff as it’s done the whole ride home. He nods, and urges his horse to step through the gate, and into his home.

* * *

His mother comes to meet him in the entrance hall, tears in her eyes as she embraces him. Her arms around his back are warm, holding him firmly to the point where it almost hurts. 

She doesn’t say much, and he doesn’t, either – just tries to take in the fact that he’s actually here. That it’s really his mother’s hair that he buries his nose into, her thin frame in his arms. Even if he outgrew her years ago and she still has to raise her head up to kiss his cheeks, he wants to lean into her, melt into her chest and let her hold him. Let her lay him down in his bed and sing him to sleep, until he forgets everything that’s happened since he rode out of here months ago.

“I was so afraid I’d never see you again,” she whispers before she pulls back and holds his face between her hands to look at him. “I’m so sorry for how those people treated you – and that we couldn’t get you out sooner.”

She wipes off her eyes with the back of her hand, and Even swallows.

How could he find a way to tell her the truth about how one of _those people_ has made him feel?

His father is, as expected, not as emotional, but there’s a content sort of smile on his face as Even approaches him, and he does stretch out his hands to pull Even into an embrace. Not as long-lasting, or as hard, but warm nonetheless.

And somehow Even thinks he can see a flash of pride across his father’s features as he lets go of him. Something that says that he’s somehow, for once, fulfilled his father’s wishes.

That he survived, that he’s stayed strong, and didn’t give in.

If they only knew.

“You must be tired,” his father says in his familiar, deep voice. “Just get some rest tonight, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Even can only nod. He’s exhausted to the bone, and there’s nothing he wants apart from sleep. Sleep, and wake to a world where everything is as it should be.

* * *

The smiles on the servants’ faces as they welcome him into his chambers are just as wide as the guards’. 

Everything has been prepared for him in advance. Just like it’s always been. 

A bath has been drawn, the water steaming in the chill castle air, and the sheets on the bed are blue. There’s even flowers standing on the table underneath the window. 

Roses. 

He bites his lip and turns his attention to the bath instead.

The soap smells of lavender and rosemary from the herbary, and the cloth is soft, softer than the one he’d been given in Bergheim.

He looks down at his arms; not nearly as strong as when he left this castle. Better than when he was released from the dungeons, but still oddly thin.

There are no bruises left on them, though. No scars, no marks or scratches.

If the servants had expected his body to bear more evidence of his captivity, they conceal it well – just keep washing him without saying anything. 

He doesn’t watch to see if they exchange any glances as he rises from the bath and slips into his nightshirt. Knows what they must be thinking; how they must think he’s been mistreated. How they must hate the infamous commander who did this to him.

And right now, even if he’s known most of these people since he was little, he just wants to get rid of them. Just wants to fall into his bed, to be alone.

When he finally is, he doesn’t fall asleep right away. Even if his every limb feels like it’s made of lead, his mind is still running, whirling away in spirals every time he closes his eyes.

The last minutes before he left Bergheim play over and over in his head. Isak’s last words. His hard gaze. His unreadable expression as he’d handed Even his sword back.

It’s only natural, of course, that Isak couldn’t let on that anything had ever happened between them, or that they’d even talked. Least of all in front of the king, of all the others.

Still – however foolish it is – he’d wished for something more before they parted. Some sort of sign, just a small acknowledgement from Isak that what they shared wouldn’t be forgotten.

That it was more than just attraction or a thrill, a distraction from Isak’s everyday life in the castle.

_I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you. I’m going to take care of you. You’re so beautiful._

It’s just – even if it’s only been a few days, it feels more and more like a dream. As if he’s starting to doubt that it happened at all. 

Maybe, in a few more days, he’ll have forgotten what Isak’s touch felt like altogether. Won’t be able to recall what it felt like when he moved inside of him, or how his breath felt on his lips.

Even swallows, before he turns his face down into the pillow, and waits for sleep.

* * *

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is that the light is different.

It’s falling from another angle than it usually does, coming from the wrong side of the bed, and there’s something about the air in the room that isn’t right.

Then he opens his eyes, and remembers.

He’s _home._

Slowly, he rolls over onto his back. Watches the blue canopy above the bed, the little golden stars embroidered in the fabric. Turns his head, and sees the roses on the table.

He rises from the bed, walks over to the window, draws the curtains to the side and opens it.

Ever since he was a child, he’s always loved sitting in this window. For as long as he can remember, he’s been here for hours on end, watching the boats, the sea, imagining shapes and creatures in the clouds drifting by.

As he’d grown older, he’d learnt how to read the different shades of sky to predict what the weather would be like. Not that he really _needed_ to learn those things – there’d always be others to perform such tasks for him – but young Even had nagged the wiseman until he’d agreed to teach him some of it anyway.

Right now, the clouds are small and puffy, lined with golden light from the rising sun, gliding slowly from the mountains on one side of the bay across to the other. The sunlight reflects on the surface of the sea below, glittering in gold and a faint morning pink. And, on his face, the breeze. 

It isn’t chilly, only fresh, smelling of salt and late summer blending into autumn, crisp and clear.

A few fishing boats are already returning home from out in the narrow bay, and at the quay he can see the war ships anchored, slowly rocking with the waves.

Maybe, in the years to come, his people won’t need those ships anymore. Maybe he, and everyone who lives here, won’t have to walk around anticipating an attack from Høyland soldiers any second.

If everything he’s been through has done him any good, at least there’s that. 

Even if he can’t have Isak, that is something he might have given his people. Maybe.

Looking down at the water, at the seagulls circling the fishing boats, he remembers lying in Isak’s bed, watching him, thinking of how the breeze would ruffle his curls if they’d walk along the sea together. How salt would gather in his eyelashes, how blushed his cheeks might be.

If Isak would ever come here, this window would be one of the first things Even would show him. Let him run his fingers across the polished stone on the windowsill, flat and smooth after years of use. Just like Isak had shown him his favorite books, he’d tell him of all the stories he’d made up sitting here, all the dreams of faraway lands beyond the horizon. Of adventure and escape.

Standing here, he can feel a remnant of that notion, still lingering somewhere inside. A sort of phantom belief, so engraved in him since his childhood days that it reappears by itself. A sense of hope.

Maybe, one day, if the truce will hold, Isak might actually return here. Not as the enemy he was when he was here to negotiate, eyed by everyone with suspicion and fear. But as a kind of – partner. An ally. Maybe even a friend.

Even if they’ll never have each other like _that,_ perhaps Isak could stand here by his side one day. Share this with him, if only for a short while. 

It’ll never be enough, but it could be – something.

And, if the peace lasts long enough, Even could visit Bergheim again. Maybe they’ll have common affairs enough between their countries that he’ll be required to go there regularly. 

Maybe they’ll require someone to hold peace over there as well. A sort of ambassador. What if Even could convince his father to give such a position to him? 

Standing here, watching the ocean fade into the morning sky at the horizon, he can almost believe it.

* * *

The careful confidence still lingers in his chest as he makes his way down the corridor in his parent’s wing. Every stone under his feet, every tapestry on the wall as familiar as the back of his hand. His grandfather’s proud profile looking down at him from the wall opposite their door.

The smile on his father’s face is more than pleased as Even enters.

“You look like you have slept well, my son,” he says, and motions for Even to follow him through the hall and into the dining room.

In the middle of the lofty chamber stands a table laden with food. There’s not only bread and fruit, but cakes, a platter of neatly sliced ham, eggs and cheese and wine. Even can feel his father’s gaze traveling up and down his body, before he gestures to one of the chairs.

The shirt and the blue jacket still don’t fit him like they used to, the arms a little wider than normally, his trousers tied up a little tighter.

“I’m not surprised to see that they haven’t fed you very well,” his father continues, “please, have a seat.”

Even sits down in his chair and grabs a piece of bread. “I – it wasn’t too bad.”

He wonders what his father would say if he’d just admit to the fact that he’d been held up in Isak’s private chambers. He guesses he wouldn’t be mad, maybe more confused, but Even isn’t really sure how much he could avoid letting on what else had happened up there if he started talking about it. 

Plus, he’s not certain at all about how much Terje knows about Isak’s arrangement. If he even was aware what risks Isak had taken to keep Even close and comfortable.

It’s probably for the best not to admit to too much, even if part of him wants to insist on redeeming Isak’s reputation in the eyes of those close to him. 

“No?” His father eyes him carefully. 

Even shakes his head. “I’ve been treated pretty – fairly.”

“Good.” His father reaches for the wine, and pours them each a cup. “We’re going to have to have quite a lot of – dealings with them from now on, as I’m sure you might have guessed.”

Even heart rate picks up a little. 

“Yes.” He takes a sip of the wine, the warmth of it mixing with the anticipation of what his father will tell him next.

When he’d first been captured, when he’d been forced to lay down his sword in front of Isak and swear his allegiance to him, he’d been convinced that his father would be beyond disappointed in him.

Certain that he’d only view this as Even’s failure, as his misjudgement. He remembers wondering what lengths his family would be forced to go to to set him free, what sacrifices they’d have to make.

And now, his father looks… relaxed. Pleased. Almost proud of him. As if his imprisonment actually has led to something beneficial. 

“I’m not certain of how much you’ve been aware of how much I have – negotiated with the king of Høyland while you’ve been a captive of theirs,” his father continues. 

Even swallows down another sip of wine, and picks at the bread, turning it over in his hand. “I heard that the king was here. And, ehm, the prince.”

“They were. Quite a delegation, actually.” His father lets his gaze linger on Even’s face for a moment, before he continues. “And, as you might have guessed, we eventually managed to reach an armistice between us. But your liberation did not come for free.”

Even bites his lip, and looks down at the apple on his platter. Maybe this is where he should expect a scolding for his carelessness, after all. “I’m – I’m aware of that, yes.”

“King Terje is now granted access to the harbor. As you know, this is something he’s been striving for for many years.” His father’s smile is gone now, face serious as he breaks a bread in half and stretches out his hand for the butter in front of him. “Initially, he wanted to station part of his army here, but I managed to put a stop to that.”

A vision of Isak in full armor down by the wharf flashes before Even’s eyes. It’s not going to happen, but if his father would have agreed, maybe Isak would have been the one to –

“You can only imagine how the people of this city would have taken to that many Høyland soldiers being stationed here permanently.” His father spreads the butter on the bread carefully, as if the movement underlines his every word. “They will be displeased as it is when Terje’s trade caravans start rolling through the city gates.”

Even has figured as much. Everyone have seemed happy enough to see him, but he can imagine that it’ll wear off when the price for his release will be more visible.

“So,” his father says, and lifts his gaze again. “Even if Terje and his people won’t be seeing as much of _us_ as we will of _them,_ he did agree that we needed something more to solidify this agreement. Something that will placate our people and have them tolerate the presence of our former enemy here. To keep their trust in both them, and us, despite the changes.”

Even carves out a piece of the apple, tries to keep the knife steady, concentrating on making the pieces equally sized. “Yes.”

“So,” his father says again, laying the bread down and folding his hands in front of him. “This – agreement – will also mean some changes for you.”

Even looks up at him. At his silvery grey hair, parted in the middle, his bright blue eyes, his hands clasped together in front of his platter.

He holds his breath. 

What if this is where his father tells him he’s being sent back to Isak’s capital? Maybe it’ll be like he imagined? What if –

“Due to the war, matters like these have been postponed way too long, for both our countries,” his father says, and lowers his chin. “I’m fairly positive that you agree with me, Even, that the time is long overdue for you to marry.”

Even’s heart starts beating faster. It can’t be – 

The proud smile is back on his father’s face as he straightens his back, and watches Even with a look of equal contentment and benevolence. “This afternoon, your mother and I will have the very great pleasure to announce your engagement to the princess Eva of Bergheim.”

The apple drops from his hand, and the knife clatters to the table. Suddenly, Even’s mouth is dry, his pulse thin in his ears, his fingers numb and powerless.

“You’ll be installed in a palace near our border, at the edge of the northern woods.” His father’s voice echoes from somewhere far away, a strange, empty ring to it. Even isn’t sure he can see him, doesn’t even know if he’s sitting up anymore, if he can feel the chair underneath him, if anything is supporting his weight.

“Yes,” he manages to croak out, grabbing on to the edge of the table for support.

So this is how it’ll go.

He’ll be married to Isak’s sister. Will be allowed near him, will meet him regularly. Will call him _family._

And Isak will never, _never,_ be his.

“This will be a very beneficial arrangement, my son,” his father’s voice continues. “For you, and for our country.”

“I,” he hears himself whisper. And then, pulled from somewhere deep inside of him, something he knows he should say, but still has to force out. “Thank you.”

* * *

He barely knows how he manages to get back to his room – only finds himself lying on the bed, face down, trying to remember how to breathe.

He should have seen this coming. How could he not have?

Of course, this is a huge opportunity. For him. For his family. His people. 

Something to solidify his future. Everyone’s future.

He can only imagine the expectant joy he’ll see on his mother’s face after they’ve announced the engagement. Can only try to fathom the strength it’ll take for him to put on a somewhat straight face in front of her. 

To everyone else, he should be happy. Of course he should be.

If anybody notices any strain on his face, perhaps they’ll imagine him displeased because he’s lost his freedom. Maybe they’ll think that he should have been married away earlier, before he could get used to the benefits of a bachelor’s life.

Truth is, he’s always known that this isn’t a choice he would be able to make for himself. He’s just been able to put it off in his head, thinking that his parents hadn’t found a match satisfying enough, too busy with war and survival to find someone for him, youngest of three as he is.

And now, he’ll be forced to live his life with the sister of the man he loves. 

It’s an odd thought, but the moment he thinks it to himself, he knows it’s true. He’s in love with Isak so much that he should probably be terrified by it. But it isn’t scary, or overwhelming, or surprising. It just – _is._

Simple, and irrefutable. A fact that seems just as solid as that the sky is blue, or the ocean salty. But meaningless, without any impact on him, or his future.

It’s just how it is, and he’ll have to live with it.

He curls up into himself as bits and pieces of what his father said at the breakfast table start floating back to him.

That they’d want the wedding to take place as soon as possible. Hopefully within a month. Of course, that would be the wisest – before anybody has time to reconsider, before there will be an uprising of any kind.

Suddenly, it hits him. _Did Isak know?_

Is _that_ the reason for the stern face as he handed Even his sword back? Was it more than just an act to placate his father, and all the others around them?

Could Isak have played any part in this? Endorsed, helped plan it even? Could he have said all those things to Even, touched him like he did, treated him with such care and tenderness and given himself to him like that, and then proceeded to plan his marriage to somebody else only days later?

He refuses to believe it. 

Hadn’t Isak said that he was only going to come along as a guard, someone to evoke fear and help the king enforce his will? 

_Is that why Isak had been so protective of him? To keep him alive only for this deal?_

He grabs a pillow and presses it down over his head, breathing heavily into the mattress until little white dots appear in the outer field of his vision and he has to let go. 

How is he even going to survive this wedding? 

And, much worse, how will he live through the never-ending days, _years,_ to come? His whole life, beside someone who will never know what he truly feels? 

He lies still on his bed until his back starts hurting and the breeze from the window turns raw and cold. 

* * *

A mere week later, he’s on the back of a horse again. 

It’s obvious from the colors of the leaves that autumn is approaching – some lined with a thin rim of yellow, others already fallen to the ground. Further ahead, the crowns of the trees shift in red, green and orange; a few of them still hanging onto the remnants of summer while others do not. 

The road is narrow here on the precipice of the forest, seldom used during years of warfare, their tracks from this morning meeting them as they ride south again. Far ahead, he can see the ocean glittering beneath the city.

It had been his mother’s idea to visit his future home for the day. To see the palace currently being prepared for Princess Eva and him.

She’d probably thought it’d be a good reason to get him out of his room, lift his gloom and make him look forward to the wedding instead of sulking by himself for the seventh day in a row.

Not that he’s been left in peace ever since the engagement was announced – there’s been an endless stream of servants scurrying in and out of his room, taking measures for new clothes, cutting his hair, forcing him out of bed to attend in the throne room. Every day, there’s been an endless stream of guests, welcoming him home and congratulating him on his impending wedding with curt, polite bows.

If anyone’s opposed to this marriage taking place, they’ve at least had the courtesy not to let it show. 

And, if he thought it would be hard to act the relieved homecoming prince beforehand, it’s nothing against what the past week has been like. He feels like his jaws soon will lock from the forced smile he’s been wearing – all his time and effort has been spent on keeping his back straight and the tears off his face.

When his mother had suggested that his friends should come along today, he’d shifted and changed the subject, grateful when she’d let it slide.

He feels bad for avoiding them ever since he got home, but truth be told, he suspects that they’d see beyond his facade much quicker than his parents would. It had been hard enough keeping it together in front of Yousef and Mutta during the ride home, and now he isn’t sure if he’d be able to keep it all in.

And this is a secret he must keep. If not for his own sake, for Isak’s. He could never put him in that kind of danger. 

So, he’s kept to himself. Held it in, and done his best to pretend.

Somehow, he feels even more exhausted now than after weeks in the dungeon under Isak’s castle, void of light and food and exercise. 

If he could, he’d crawl under the covers of his bed and just sleep. For days, weeks, years even.

But as it is, he’s on the back of his old favorite horse, his mother beside him, guards behind as well as in front of them, his body aching and his head dull and throbbing simultaneously.

“Did you like it?” his mother asks beside him, carefully. 

He bites his lip, and forces himself to nod.

It hadn’t taken him long to understand what this palace really was. In all honesty, he should have understood it already when his father mentioned it the first time.

_There’s this summer palace, close to your border. There’s woods around it, and a garden._ _You’d love it._

He can almost hear Isak’s voice whispering the words inside his head. Feel how the soft darkness had surrounded them after they’d made love, lying in Isak’s bed, imagining silly dreams of a future where they’d be able to go there together.

Instead, he’d walked around alone in the halls today, watching servants hang up tapestries, blue and green beside each other, carrying furniture around, sweeping out dusty rooms. 

Preparing everything for his future, without him having the slightest say. 

The absolute worst part of it all was when he’d entered the garden. Until then, he hadn’t really been able to _feel_ it, to take it all in. 

But as he’d stepped through the iron-wrought gate leading out from the gallery, his heart had nearly stopped in his chest.

It was so obvious that this garden had been modeled from the one Isak had shown him in the moonlight. The flowerbeds arranged in the same pattern, the roses climbing the walls just the same. Only now, there were no flowers left on them, only brown-rimmed leaves still hanging on to wilted stems, not a trace of the heavy scent that had surrounded them that night.

He barely had to look into the middle of the garden to know that there’d be an apple tree there. Flowers turned into red fruits hanging heavy on its branches. Another reminder. _I used to come here all the time when I was a kid._

His mother’s hand had been soft around his wrist as she’d whispered, “I thought you’d like this. I’ve always known how much you’ve loved our garden,” and he’d had to bite back his tears.

Hopefully, she’d interpreted his silence as gratitude, or maybe excitement. In any case, she’d just held his hand while he stood there, breathing, before he could gather the strength to turn around and walk out of there.

He looks up to the sky, shifting from bright blue to a darker shade over the bay to the right, and bites his lip. 

“It – it was lovely, mother.”

Even if he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, not daring to look at her in case his face would give too much away, he can see her shift on her horse.

“I – my son, I know that this – these past months – have been a lot to handle for you.” Her voice is soft, low enough that the guards around them cannot hear. “I understand that it – that maybe you can’t find it in yourself to be happy about this yet, but –”

He takes a deep breath. Watches the spires of the capital’s battlements in the distance, the rooftops gleaming golden in the almost setting sun.

“– I really, really hope you’ll be happy together,” his mother continues. “The princess is very beautiful, you know.”

Even nods, hands tight around the horse’s reins.

“And I’m sure she’s a nice young lady.” He can hear the smile in her voice. 

Even thinks of how straight Eva’s back had been as she’d gotten off her horse in the courtyard. Of her armor shining in the sunlight. The paintings of her in his room.

Of Isak, and what he’d told him about her. Her fierceness and stubbornness. Her and Isak’s close bond. 

He swallows, again. “Yes.” 

“Much nicer than her brother, anyway.” His mother gives off a short laugh that borders on a huff, and Even freezes in the saddle, his chest suddenly tight.

“He scared all of the maids half to death with his angry stares when he visited us,” his mother continues, apparently oblivious to the way Even has tensed up. “I hope you didn’t have to face him too much when you were held – over there?”

Even keeps his eyes on the road, away from her. Bites his lip, and looks down at his hands.

“No. Not too much.”

* * *

As they enter the castle and head for their chambers, it’s obvious that something is amiss. Stolen whispers among the guards holding the door, long, silent looks hanging between them. 

His father’s back is rigid as they enter the dining hall, his face almost as pale as the piece of parchment he holds in his hand.

“This,” his father says through clenched teeth. “I cannot believe it.”

“What is it?” His mother’s eyes are wide as she looks from the parchment to the servants standing by the wall, heads bowed.

His father grabs on to the chair behind him, knuckles white, features contorted with rage as he hands her the letter. 

Her face falls as she reads; brow furrowing tighter with every second, and when she reaches the end, her mouth falls open.

She turns her gaze to Even, her face somewhere beyond confused and apologetic. 

“I should have known better than to trust those – _people.”_ His father spits it out, letting go of the chair and turning around to pace along the table, down to the end and back again.

“Father? What is it?” Even looks to him, then his mother, and down to the letter in her hand.

“The princess,” his mother whispers. “She –”

“She’s run off.” His father nods, short and angry. “Nowhere to be found. Says here they’re doing everything they can to find her, but.” 

He snorts, before he takes the piece of parchment in his hand again, holding it tight in his fist.

“If Terje doesn’t find her and gets her to this wedding in time, this means one thing, and one thing only.” He straightens his back, piercing Even with his gaze, hard and fiery. “War.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it? Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go after this – time flies when you're having fun!  
> So, we left Even in a tight spot at the end of the latest chapter – I know a lot of you are anxious to see what'll happen next, and there's still a lot to wrap up, so I'll let you get to it ;)
> 
> (And thank you for all your lovely, thoughtful and insightful comments, I cherish each and every one of them <3)

For the first time since Even’s return, he’s in the library.

Ever since he came home from the summer palace with his mother, he’s kept to his room. Mostly to avoid all the looks he knew he’d be given; it’s enough to see the servants’ stolen glances, imagining the whispering exchanges they’ll share once they’re out of his sight.

Not that he blames them – the castle gossip must be more vibrant than ever, with his homecoming, an endangered wedding – with the  _ enemy’s daughter  _ – and now, a looming war. 

Partly, however, he’s been reluctant to come here because of the thoughts and memories all these books would evoke in him. 

He’d been right, of course – walking along the walls, letting his fingers stroke the spines of the books, his thoughts couldn’t stray anywhere else than to Isak, and what he’d think of this library if he ever was to visit it. Wondering where the books Isak fetched him are now. If they’re still on the bedside table in the guest room where he’d been held, or if Isak has taken them back to his own library. 

It makes his chest tighten, and still, he needs this refuge. It’s been almost a week since he received the news of the letter, his father’s rage, the threats of another march on Bergheim, and he’s hardly left his room since. This morning, as he woke, the walls seemed closer than usual, the air even more stale, and he realized that he was on the verge of recreating the very same scenario as when he was captive.

Except this time, there’s no Isak coming to visit him.

His mother has been to see him a few times, never nagging or overbearing but still too close, and he knows, unless he wants a much bigger ordeal made of it, he should get out of his room.

He’d debated going to the garden, until he’d seen the curtain of rain outside, the kind of autumn downpour that barely lets you breathe. 

So, now he’s sitting in the wide window of the library instead, a dusty old volume bound in thick leather on his lap. 

He hasn’t opened it yet, has only listened to the stillness of the rain smattering on the windows. Reveled in the emptiness, the absence of servants scurrying around him every five minutes or so.

None of them will come here unless asked – unlike in his chambers, where there always seems to be someone carrying things in and out, candles, water for the tub, clothes, or wood for the fire.

His thumb moves along the pages of the book.  _ On Swords and Shields,  _ the golden letters painted on the front say.

Will he be forced to pick up his sword again, perhaps only weeks from now? Let himself be clad in armor to lead the army once more?

Is that really how this is supposed to end? With more deaths, more misery for the people he’s supposed to help rule over and protect?

A dead end, with no return. There’s no future down that path; only endless cycles of destruction, something no one wants but that they don’t know how to escape.

This morning, instead of the seamstress carrying the gold and blue fabrics for his wedding suit, the blacksmith had come. The plates of his armor were heavy, the leather straps too tight around his shoulders despite how skinny he still is. 

Time is running out. 

Only a couple of weeks to go, and then there’s no turning back. Unless Eva turns up.

But the worst part is that he won’t set out to destroy an army of faceless men this time. 

This time, he knows exactly who will command the other side of the battlefield. Who he’ll be required to seek out, defeat, and destroy.

Who’ll be forced to do the same thing to  _ him. _

And this time, surrender won’t be an option. No room for handing over his sword. No one will accept anything else than victory. 

A vision flashes by, of himself on the battlefield, Isak beneath him, Even’s sword at the point of his throat, everyone watching, expectant –

It cannot happen. It  _ cannot. _

He’d rather marry Eva a thousand times than be forced to live through  _ that.  _

Part of him wants to curse Eva for forcing him into this, wants to despise her selfishness in running away without a care what this would mean to everyone else. And part of him cannot help but feel deeply envious. Of her courage, for daring to stand up for herself and what she wants. To deny dancing along to what somebody else decided for her.

What choice does he have? How could he even try to turn these events, to keep everything from shattering into pieces?

Running away would hardly be an option. The war will be coming, whether he’s here or not.

He sits in the window, thumb running up and down the pages. It’s difficult to make out the harbor through the thick curtain of rain; the ocean as gray as the sky, the horizon impossible to distinguish.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when suddenly, the silence stirs somewhere behind him, and he straightens up, turning his head just in time to see Yousef slide down in the chair beside the window.

One of his eyebrows are raised, and his chin’s slightly raised in mock defiance as he stares Even straight in the eyes with a small smile.

“So you know how to find the way out of your room after all,” Yousef says, throwing one long leg over the other as he leans back in the chair.

Even bites his lip, and looks back out the window.

“Come on, man,” Yousef says, voice lower as he stretches out to pat Even on the leg. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny.”

There’s a sheepish smile on Yousef’s face as Even turns to look at him; hair a little longer than usual but still parted in the middle, and with a pang of affection in his chest for his oldest friend, Even smiles back.

“Very funny,” he manages.

“I’ve missed you, you know.” Yousef leans on his elbows to look up at him. “I get that there’s been a lot going on, and. We don’t have to talk about it. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Even sighs, and bites his lip. How relieving wouldn’t it be to spill it all, or to relieve at least part of what’s weighing him down? 

“I’m,” he starts. “It’s been a bit – tiring.”

Yousef nods, his gaze trained on Even’s eyes, and Even can tell that he’s trying to hold back the questions, wants to let Even tell as much as he can, in his own pace. And he loves him for it, he really does – but this is a secret he cannot tell.

“How was it? Really?” Yousef’s voice is lower, barely echoing among the shelves.

Even draws a deep breath. Maybe he could at least share a shard, something to redeem Isak just a little in his best friend’s eyes?

“It was – I was actually treated well,” he says in a hushed voice, eyes fixed on the open door leading to the hall outside. “They’re not all as cruel as we make them out to be.”

“Really?” Yousef’s forehead wrinkles a little, but his eyes are soft. “That’s – that’s good.”

“Yeah, I –” Even swallows, and tries to assess how much he can spill. ”I think maybe we have some – prejudice when it comes to their people, or. You know. Some of them are… a lot like us.”

“You’re telling me you come back looking all scrawny and miserable and you were treated  _ well _ over there?” Yousef eyes him seriously, and Even wants to swallow his tongue. 

“No.” He clears his throat. “Maybe not –  _ well,  _ well. But, you know. They’re not all – monsters.”

“Hope not.” Yousef grins. “Since you supposed to marry one of them.”

Even melts deeper into the windowsill, his body suddenly heavy again. “We’ll see.”

“Maybe it’ll work out, though.” Yousef licks his lips, and casts a glance over his shoulder before he leans even closer to Even, his voice a whisper as he speaks again. “I just overheard the guards talking outside, and... seems like King Terje is on his way here. To parley.”

Even straightens up, heart beating faster. “He is?”

“Sounded like it, from what I heard.” Yousef nods.

“When?” Even slides his legs down to the floor. “Did they say?”

“No idea.” Yousef shrugs, and looks up at him. 

Pulse beating in his quickly in his throat, Even swallows. There’s only one thing right now he really wants to know. And perhaps, it’ll be safer to ask Yousef than his father. It’s just a question, after all. Nothing more.

“Do you – do you know if he’s coming alone?” Even bites his lip, his hands sweaty.

Yousef’s eyebrows knit in the middle. “I shouldn’t think so. The king’s bound to have guards with him, right?”

“No. I mean.” Even draws another deep breath. “Did you hear if – if the prince is coming with him?”

“Prince Isak?” Yousef stares at him, eyes wary. “Why?”

“No, I just. I just wondered.” 

“Even.” Yousef’s hand is warm and heavy as he puts it on Even’s arm, his voice serious as he moves a little closer. “If he is, he’s probably just going to stand guard outside, just like the last time he was here. You won’t have to face him, I’m sure of it.”

Even looks down at Yousef’s hand on his arm, at his feet, at the cold stone floor beneath them. 

Of course, Yousef thinks that he’s afraid of Isak. That he’s going to do everything in his power to stay away from him, to avoid having to see him.

“You’re – you’re probably right.” He bites his lip. 

Yousef squeezes his arm a little tighter before he lets go, and smiles. “I’m sure it’ll work out. You’ll be married to that princess before you know it.”

* * *

The next afternoon, Even stands in the gallery above the entrance hall, staring down at the courtyard. The horn sounded only a short while ago, but it feels like hours have passed when he finally sees the gates open.

The procession entering is small, only just as many men as could befit a king without seeming too risky – and it dawns on Even that Terje probably knows that he’s the one who has to downplay his pride this time. That he tries to come off as humble, as willing to negotiate.

Even barely has to cast a single glance at the men and women surrounding the king to know that Isak isn’t with them. Not that he’d expected him to, not really – and maybe it’s just as well.

He recognizes Terje immediately – his sure stance and broad shoulders, his long gray hair, the way he doesn’t spare a glance for the stable boy as he hands him the reins.

Surrounding him are twelve servants in green mantles, and the color of the fabric makes something twist deep inside Even’s chest.

* * *

Dinner that night is a strained affair. Only Even and his mother, silent and waiting, neither of them bothering to guess what news might come from the private meal the two kings are having in the guest wing.

Even’s father shows up after they’ve finished, looking as haggard as Even feels, dark circles underneath his eyes and a hard angle at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m giving him until tomorrow,” his father says as he sits down at the table, his voice laced with thinly veiled anger. “If he hasn’t come up with something by then, this arrangement is over.”

Even swallows. “But there is two more weeks until the wedding, right? If Eva turns up…”

His words trail out into the distance when his father fixes his stare on him. “Do you know what she wrote? That she’s  _ never going to marry.  _ That she’s not coming home until Terje has dissolved this deal.”

Even bites the inside of his cheek.  _ Never. _

“And not only that. She wants to be in control of the army.” His father’s voice is close to a growl, tense and bitten. “Imagine your child disobeying you like that. These people.”

His father’s hand is shaking as he pours himself a glass of wine, a few drops staining the tablecloth in red and purple before he sets down the bottle with a loud thud.

“And nobody… nobody knows where she is?” Even can feel his stomach sinking. “Can’t there… can’t there be something else that we can accept instead?”

“Even.” His father stares him straight in the eye, hands on the table. “I understand that you are only trying to help, but this is not negotiable. I won’t have anything other than this. No lands, no palaces, no  _ money.” _

His father almost spits out the final words, eyes dark with anger, before he takes a large gulp of wine.

They empty their glasses in silence, rain tapping against the window.

* * *

However tired Even is from waiting, walking around the castle with his stomach in knots, he can’t bring himself to go to bed. His mind is whirling with what might happen, too busy running in circles as he tries to come up with any possible idea that could solve this situation.

The rain has subsided as he makes his way down the corridor in the direction of the gardens, only a light spray on the glass of the windows, but the night is already fully dark, the only light outside the yellow beams falling from the high windows.

He hasn’t even been down here since he came home, and now autumn has overtaken the garden completely. Almost all the leaves have fallen, yellow and orange and red turned to brown, rotting on the ground. The tree branches are wet and naked from the rain, the weak purple of the orpines the only thing coloring the flowerbeds, and the air smells of dirt and mud and mold, of hibernation and darkness. 

A single rotten apple lies on the ground under the tree, and Even has to swallow. 

He’s been putting off going down here ever since he came home – just like he avoided visiting the library – and now, when he’s finally here, he’s too late.

Nothing in this garden is similar to that moonlit night in Bergheim. Nothing like when Isak had pulled him by the arm between the bushes and kissed him, surrounded by the sweet scent of roses and apple blossoms, the late summer night hiding them from everything else.

Here and now, there’s nothing but death. 

If he didn’t feel so hopeless, he’d laugh at the blatant parallel to the war that will most likely be upon them after tomorrow. And how there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. As inevitable as the change of seasons.

He sits down on the bench beside the entrance. The wood is soaked through, and the back of his legs turns wet and cold, but he can’t stand being inside the castle right now. Out here he can at least, if barely, breathe.

He casts a glance at the apple tree again. The gnarly trunk, the dark branches. A stray leaf, yellow and red, still hanging onto a scrawny twig.

It looks just like the twig stuck in Isak’s hair after they’d ducked in under the apple tree. In that moment of freedom, where everything felt possible, where they both knew that what they were doing might be wrong and unheard of, but neither of them cared. Where they took matters into their own hands. Together.

He almost sneers at himself as he remembers telling Isak about this garden. About his childish wish to resign from his predetermined path, the dreams he’d nurtured about being allowed to settle here. To avoid all wars, and dedicate himself to something that’ll live.

There’s a surge in his chest as he thinks of how Isak admitted something similar thing in return. How he secretly dreamt about being relieved of his duties as commander, to be allowed to –

Suddenly, the solution is right there before him.

Blood rushes in his ears as he realizes what he should have seen all along; and he breathes deep, in and out, grabbing onto the wet, cold bench underneath him. 

He almost has to keep from laughing out loud – how he could have not thought of this before? Has his mind been so fogged by longing and heartbreak that he hasn’t seen what was right in front of him?

Something that could save him. Could save Isak. 

Or, in the worst case, tear everything to pieces. Alienate him from everything and everybody, and leave everything he’s wished for destroyed.

In any case, he doesn’t have much time. A few hours, at the most. 

This is no decision he can stall or leave to somebody else. Nor wait for it to solve itself. 

Only for him to decide, to risk everything by asking for it. If he dares.

_ This is a very beneficial arrangement. For you, and for your country. _

He doesn’t even feel the cold of the rain anymore, pulse so quick that it feels like it’ll expand his blood to the point of bursting.

His palms are slippery with sweat as he rises, fingers trembling as he steps over to the apple tree and leans his back at the trunk, grasping for courage.

* * *

The green-clad guard outside the guest chambers eyes Even with suspicion as he approaches, eyes narrowed under the helmet, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I need to speak to His Majesty,” Even says.

The guard doesn’t say anything, but looks him up and down, unsmiling, before he opens the door and disappears behind it.

The seconds drag like hours in the silent corridor, Even’s heart beating like a hammer, until finally the guard reappears, holding up the door with a blank expression on his face. 

Terje stands in front of the table as he enters, tall and imposing. For a quick second, Even is thrown back to the first time he saw Isak. How he stood there in his pavilion, silent and grim, waiting for Even to approach him and surrender. 

There’s no trace of softness in Terje’s eyes, however. Nothing of the surprised, almost stunned expression he’d seen on Isak’s face that day. 

Even takes a deep breath. Watches the impatient disinterest on Terje’s face, his marked eyebrows, his squared jaw. 

“Your Majesty.”

“What is it?” Terje asks, voice deep but hard, expressionless, like iron.

Even bows his head, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “If – if I may, I’d wish to speak to you alone, sir.”

Terje’s eyes flicker down to his side, and Even holds up his hands to show that there’s sword hanging there, no chainmail under his tunic.

After a few seconds of silence, Terje nods. “Very well.”

The guard casts Even a final sideways glance before he disappears out the door and closes it, leaving behind a silence that is almost suffocating. 

Even draws a deep breath, trying to form the words he came to say. Terje doesn’t offer for him to sit, only stands there with his hands behind his back, eyes piercing into Even’s. “Well?” 

Even’s pulse is even quicker now than when he stepped through the door, mouth dry, a numb feeling in his legs as he straightens up, and tries to keep his gaze locked on Terje’s without looking away.

“I – have a suggestion,” he starts, voice thin and shaky in his own ears. “As a part of the... negotiation.”

“Something that you obviously feel the need to tell me behind your parents’ backs,” Terje points out. “Go on.”

“I,” Even says. “I know about the princess. Eva. And that it doesn’t seem to – work out. And I –”

He opens his mouth and tries to breathe past the tightness in his chest. Thinks of the rainy wet garden outside, of the vast miles between their capitals. Of the men he saw on the fields out there on the day of his surrender, dying, dead. Of the vision of Isak lying splayed out on the ground in his armor, locks concealed under his helmet, Even’s sword at his throat.

“I want you to let me marry your son in her place.”

His heart must never have beaten this quickly before. It feels like it’s trying to beat its way up into his throat, constricting his windpipe and making it impossible to breathe.

If Terje is phased in any way by Even’s suggestion, he doesn’t show it the slightest. Only keeps watching Even with the same cold expression, mouth a straight line across his face.

“And what makes you think I would accept that?” Terje says, eventually, his voice just as steady as a minute ago. “Isak outranks her. And you. Besides, you wouldn’t produce any heirs.”

“I know, and –”

Even prepared for this. Thought about it. Not that he has a lot to say to defend his suggestion, other than a plea.

“– I know it might not be what you had intended, but – nobody wants this to end in war, and. You could still have access to our harbor.”

“This is not something I am going to discuss with you,” Terje says, voice laced with disdain. “I am sure you understand that this really isn’t a matter where you have a say.”

“I understand that,” Even says, and now he has to look down at the floor between them, fingers trembling as he bites the inside of his cheek. “But if the discussions don’t – don’t lead anywhere, maybe you could... take it into consideration. For – for both our people’s sake.”

There’s a moment’s silence where Terje watches him, face unreadable, and once again, Even is reminded of Isak. Of how it sometimes felt like he could look right into Even’s soul, see him for who he really was. Under Terje’s gaze, however, he doesn’t feel seen and understood, only scrutinized.

“I have to admit that I appreciate your bravery,” Terje says, at last. “Not everyone would have dared to come to me like this.”

Even nods, unsure of what to say. If it means anything.

“That doesn’t mean I am going to accept your suggestion. I will consider it, but that is all. And now it’s time for you to go.”

“Yes,” Even says. “Thank you – for listening.”

Terje doesn’t answer that, just watches him for a few more seconds, before he nods at the door. 

* * *

Even’s hands are shaking as he slips out of the room and down the corridor, glancing behind himself in the hope that nobody sees him. 

What has he done? 

Gone behind his parents’ backs, defied them by bringing his own delusional idea of a treaty to their lifelong enemy? 

Will Terje tell them? What will they say when they understand what Even has done, how he’s tried to wring the destiny decided for him out of their hands and model it with his own?

He can only imagine what they might think. That  _ this  _ is how he’s repaid them for all the hard work they’ve gone through to set him free.

Or maybe they’ll pity him. For offering himself up in marriage to the monstrous warlord everyone here considers Isak to be.

What if Terje doesn’t even take Even’s suggestion into consideration for real?

_ But what if he says yes? What if his parents agree? _

And this, this is the question at the core of it all, the one that’s burnt the deepest since he came up with the idea a mere hour ago:  _ what will Isak think? _

The few short weeks of friendship, or infatuation, or whatever it was that they shared, can barely be enough for Isak to wish to marry him. 

Isak didn’t ask for this. 

Sure, both of them have always knows that they’d never get to choose who to wed, but this is  _ Even’s _ idea. Something he’ll be forcing Isak into, whichever way one were to put it. 

No matter if they did have a short time of joy together – Even still has a hard time believing that Isak would be longing for him – at least not in the consuming, withering way Even wants him. 

Besides, wouldn’t Isak want heirs? Children?

Even if Isak’s words during their only night together said something else, Even can’t forget the way Isak looked at him as he gave him his sword back. 

Cannot shake the fear that Isak knew about the arrangement with Eva all along.

He wishes there was some way he could get in touch with Isak. Write to him. Tell him that this was the only way out of an impossible situation, that he couldn’t see any other solution. That even if it might seem presumptuous, it is for everyone’s sake. For both of their people’s.

But there is no way he could risk sending a letter, not even if he could find one of Terje’s ravens and send it off to Bergheim on its own. If the letter would fall into the wrong hands, it might mean disaster for the both of them.

No. He’s done his deed. Walked as blindly into this as he did into Isak’s tent that day. 

Now, all he can do is wait.

* * *

Even doesn’t leave his bed until a servant comes the next afternoon, clean clothes slung over his arm, and the urgent look on his face makes Even understand that it’s time. Time to go see King Terje off.

In peace or to prepare for war; Even has no idea.

He isn’t sure if he’s slept at all – more like he’s floated in and out of consciousness, not caring to get out of bed to get breakfast. His head feels light as he stands up and lets the servant dress him in his shirt and blue jacket – if it’s from lack of sleep or food, or nervousness, he doesn’t know.

The autumn sun hangs pale above the parapets, shadowed behind a curtain of thin clouds as Even enters the courtyard. The horses are already saddled, green-clad guards standing straight-faced beside them. Even folds his hands behind his back, leaning against a pillar, trying to stand steady and keep his legs from shaking too much as he keeps his eyes on the valve leading out from the entrance hall.

It only takes a few minutes for his parents to appear. Neither of them smile, but they don’t look angry either. There’s more color on his father’s face than yesterday, and his mother looks straight ahead; their gazes serious, decisive, but not unkind.

And, between them, King Terje. 

He casts a quick glance at Even, expression exactly the same as yesterday. Not a hint of a smile on his stone-carved face, framed by the same curtain of steely gray hair as always. 

“Your Majesty,” Even says, chest tight.

Terje nods curtly, before he turns to his horse and climbs it. 

With one last look at Even, he sits up straight in the saddle, hands firm around the reins.

“I’ll see you at the wedding,” Terje says, before he turns his horse, and rides out through the gate.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. We're here! The final proper chapter! o.O
> 
> I can't believe all the love and the wonderful comments you've given this fic. What a gift to have such lovely readers as you all are! Interacting with you is the BEST and I can't express enough how fun it's been to post this and how much I've cherished and re-read every comment and message about this fic. I love you all <3
> 
> Lots of things still to go down (as you probably can tell from the word count xD), and I really really hope you'll like this chapter as well <3  
> The epilogue (which is a little... shorter xD) will be posted next Wednesday, as usual.  
> And then it really will be over! omg  
> But, until then – enjoy!!!

As the walls of Bergheim come into view, the wind picks up. There’s a cold bite to it, causing tears to form in the corner of Even’s eyes and the skies above the castle shift in white and grey. 

The last time he rode out from here, the grass in the plains surrounding the city was still green; now, it’s brown and withered, covered in a thin sheen of frost. Behind them the mountains rise, their peaks hidden in thin, pale clouds.

Their tents and furs have kept them warm during the nights, but sitting like this, exposed, the chill seeps in through the seams of his jacket, the thick woolen traveling mantle on his back not enough to keep him from shivering.

If he’d ridden his horse alone, or with just a few men, he would have been able to make it here in nearly half the time. 

But a wedding requires its proper escort, after all.

“It’s prettier than I imagined,” his mother says to his left. “Larger.”

Even nods. “It’s – it’s a fair city.”

She doesn’t answer right away, just looks at him with the mixture of compassion and pity that he’s learnt to recognize over the past weeks. 

There’s an aborted movement of her hand as if she wants to lay it on his before she realizes that his horse is too far away.

“It can’t be easy for you. To come here again,” she says in a low voice, redirecting her gaze from his face to the city below them.

She’s right – it isn’t. Maybe not purely for the reasons she thinks Even might have – but it’s not like he had a choice. As Isak outranks him, this is where they are; looking down at the walls and spires of the capital. 

“It – it’s alright, mother,” he replies. “But – thank you.”

After the initial shock of Terje’s proposal, there’s been a new concern to her voice, a different tenderness in how she looks at him. A look that says _I’m sorry for what we have to put you through._

As he maybe should have guessed, Terje seemed to have presented the suggestion that Even should marry Isak as his own. At least, his parents haven’t breathed a word about suspecting Even to be involved somehow. He’s fairly certain Terje didn’t exclude that fact for Even'ssake – rather that Terje thought it might look like a grand gesture to present it as his own. A generous offer, an outstretched hand to save everybody’s face.

However, the fact that his parents actually did accept couldn't mask their distress over Even marrying the most merciless warrior of their time.

Even’s had nothing to say about the whole thing, of course. Not that he knows very well that Isak is nothing like what people believe him to be, and not that this whole arrangement actually was _his_ idea. How could he? 

Keeping all of these secrets has made him, in a way, feel almost as estranged from his family and friends as when he was held captive. Reunited on the surface, but just as isolated in his mind.

So, he’s kept silent. Kept himself busy worrying over what he’d find in Isak’s eyes as they’d finally arrive here. 

Wondering what Isak’s father has told _him._

If Isak knows that this was Even’s idea. Or if he thinks that it was just another order from his father, meant to be obeyed blindly and without question. 

And, if Isak knows that Even was the one who suggested it, does he believe that Even wants this? Does he think Even did it out of love for him? Or does he think that Even did it purely for the sake of peace, for his people? A sacrifice?

As they approach the city gates a few snowflakes land on the horse’s mane, and Even grips the reins more tightly.

He thinks of the last time he entered this city: captured, blind, with no measure of time or place. A prisoner left completely at the mercy of others.

The guards beside the gate bow deep as they pass, helmets pulled down deep over their faces, swords hanging by their sides.

Even feels his heart beat faster as he nears the last of the inner walls and sees the green and gold banners hanging above the castle gate. Tries to sit straight on his horse, tries to keep his vision from narrowing as the gate opens up and reveals the courtyard behind.

The scene before him is reminiscent of the last time he rode out of here, and at the same time not at all. No one is sitting on their horses this time, but there are at least thirty guards standing in the courtyard, spears in their hands, green mantles falling from their shoulders. In the middle, tall and proud and clad in fur, Terje stands together with a woman who can be no one other than Isak’s mother. Light blonde, long curls streaked with grey, and a smile on her face that looks both kind and sad, a little vacant.

And, between them, Isak.

Bare-headed, with no cape or helmet, a few white snowflakes caught in the blonde curls falling over his forehead. His hair is longer, doesn’t look like it’s been cut since Even last saw him, but his face is clean-shaven, his cheeks smooth and young-looking.

But when Even looks in his eyes, Isak seems to be ten years older than when Even last saw him.

There’s little left of the hard coldness that Even saw in them before he rode away. Most of all, they look tired. Weary and lined, and when he looks up and meets Even’s eyes, they widen a little. Isak stares at him without blinking, gaze both wary and maybe – a little scared?

He looks just as handsome as Even remembers, and part of him wants to jump off his horse and run into his arms, hold him and kiss that weary look off his face. Wants Isak to drag him by the hand up to his chambers, lay Even down on his bed and never let go.

But that is not how this is supposed to go.

He knows nothing of what Isak is thinking, what lies in the deep, unreadable look he’s giving Even. 

And, as far as everyone else in this courtyard knows, they have barely spoken to each other.

Only twice; first when Even gave himself over to Isak on the battlefield and presented him with his sword – and second, on the day Isak gave it back to him and let him go.

Even holds in his horse when he sees his father do it, and climbs off, handing the reins to one of the guards.

Then, they walk up to greet the other royal family. 

“Your Majesties, Your Highness,” Isak says, his voice rough but thin, musical and toneless at the same time. “Welcome to Bergheim. It is an honor to have you in our presence.”

To his right, Even’s father bows deeply, and Even follows suit.

“Your Majesties, Your Highness,” Even repeats, hoping that his voice will carry. “It is an honor to be here.”

“You will find that the guest wing of this castle has been prepared for your convenience,” Isak continues. “My personal guard will lead you to your chambers. I sincerely hope that you will find some rest there before tomorrow’s wedding.”

Isak’s voice thins out at the last words, and Even tries to catch his gaze, attempts to read from his face what he’s thinking. 

But Isak has already looked away. Has turned his face to his left, towards the guard closest to him. 

There’s a faint flicker of warmth in Even’s chest as he sees the mop of brown curls on Jonas’ head – the only person who might have an inkling of what Even’s been through since he left this place.

Over Jonas’s shoulder, he sees Isak place a hand on his mother’s back and say something into her ear. Sees her smile, and turn her face up at Isak, who nods.

In a distant future, will Isak and he ever stand like that? Greet their faraway guests in their home together? Will Even be allowed to put his arm around Isak’s back, just like that, and make him smile up at him?

Then, Isak turns again – and looks straight at Even. Meets his gaze and holds it, with the same careful, wary expression as before. Opens his mouth a little, as if there’s something he wants to say.

Even’s breath catches in his chest as he sees Isak lick his lips, and then bite them shut.

“Please come with me, Your Majesties, Your Highness,” Jonas’ voice says to his side.

And with one last, lingering look at Isak, Even turns, and follows after his parents and Jonas.

* * *

Jonas doesn’t let on at all that he knows Even as they walk toward the guest wing – doesn’t talk to him except for the expected remarks about how he hopes their trip has gone well – but there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he shows Even his door. He doesn’t stay behind, though, only nods to the servants inside and assures Even that he can call upon them anytime if needed.

Everything in this room is made to look welcoming as well as imposing. The green curtains framing the bed are embroidered with gold, and the painting on the wall shows an army marching across a field, the sun shining down on them from above, reflecting in their armour. Flames dance in the fireplace in the corner, and a thick carpet lies on the floor beneath the foot of the bed. 

Outside the window, the sun is about to set behind the mountain ridges, their sides illuminated in red and gold, dusk falling quickly on the rooftops below. The sight is the same as from the room where he was held prisoner, except now he’s in the opposite wing of the castle, as lost and disoriented as he was when he first came here.

His parents will probably dine over there tonight, with Isak’s parent’s. Try to pour oil on the troubled waters between them, set the tone for the ceremony tomorrow. 

Isak, however, will most likely dine alone in his room, just like Even will. One final night of solitude, time to reflect and prepare for a future where one will never be truly alone again. 

Even’s always appreciated this tradition – has kind of liked the idea that you should spend the last night alone, collect yourself before you give yourself over to another. Has wondered how it’d feel when – if – it would finally be his turn.

Imagined how he’d sit like this, maybe in a foreign castle, in front of a fire, excited and nervous, wondering what his future spouse would be like. Afraid of the unknown, but knowing that he’d have to go along with it, no matter what.

He’s never imagined this, though. Knowing, with absolute certainty, that the one he’s going to wed is in fact the man of his dreams, but having no idea how _Isak_ feels about it. If he thinks of this marriage as a sort of last resort, like both their parents probably do. 

It’s ironic, in a way. How he’s wished he could talk to Isak for months, and now that he’s finally here, there’s still no way for him to do it – still separated from him by all these unknown guards and people, walls and corridors he doesn’t know his way through. 

Restless as he might be, he’ll just have to resign to it, and wait until tomorrow.

* * *

It’s still dark when he wakes, and at first, he doesn’t know where he is. Sits up, heart beating quickly in his chest. Then he sees a faint shimmer of moonlight through the window, and remembers.

The fireplace is dark and the floor cold as he pads across it, carrying the blankets with him to the window. 

Even if he’s wide awake already, this feels like a dream. Like something that’s happening to somebody else. He’s waited to see Isak again for so long, and now, when this day is waiting to unfold right in front of him, it’s hard to believe that it’s actually going to happen. 

As he sits in the window, watching the sun rise and hearing the city awaken below, the detached feeling lingers. 

Down there, people go about their business as usual. Maybe they feel excited over a royal wedding happening today, or they don’t care. Maybe they celebrate the fact that they’ll finally have peace and won’t have to send their children away to war as they grow up. Or maybe they’re too busy with their everyday life to linger on it at all.

After an hour or two the servants enter, carrying buckets of warm water for the tub and heaps of clothes he doesn’t recognize. As they scrub him down with soap, the scent of it so recognizable that his head spins, there’s nothing of their usual chatter – their silence today is palpable, almost solemn. And when they’ve dressed him and he looks down at the green tunic embroidered in blue and gold, it’s like looking like something out of another world. 

Their colors, intertwined. 

The servants bow as he exits, his parents and their guards waiting outside. They walk in silence down the corridors, his mother’s hand squeezing his as they enter the throne room.

It’s strange – for as long as he was being held in this castle he never entered the throne room, the heart of the castle, even once. He’s only seen the inside of the cell where he was held for the first few weeks – and once, Isak’s chambers – but mostly, the room he came to call his own.

And, only one time, the corridors and stairs leading to the moonlit castle garden. 

He has no idea in which direction that garden might be – he hardly knows up from down with how quick his pulse is beating in his ears, and how the soles of his feet feel numb, almost paralyzed.

He barely registers all the people standing to his left and right as he walks down the room; can feel them watching him, but only like a coulisse – like his vision has formed to a narrow tunnel, focused only on what awaits him at the far end of the room.

The Bergheim wiseman, white-bearded and bent, clad in a long, green mantle falling all the way to the floor, staff in hand. The king and queen, tall and imposing, their faces blurry and hard to make out.

And, standing before them, the only thing Even can see clearly enough to focus on: Isak. 

His pale, lovely face, eyebrows like dark ridges above his wide eyes; his dark blonde, soft curls in stark contrast to his squared jaw. 

Will Isak let him hold his face in his hands tonight when this is all over? Will Even be allowed to brush his thumbs over his cheekbones, to let his fingers tangle in his hair? 

Even can feel his legs walk forward, as if they carry him of their own accord, and then, Isak and him are suddenly standing right in front of each other. 

Not close enough that Even can feel the warmth radiate from Isak’s body, or feel his breath on his face. But still enough to hear the click of Isak’s throat as he swallows, to see the mole on his upper lip move when he closes his mouth.

Their eyes remain locked as the room falls silent around them; Isak’s transfixing stare the only anchor in the blur surrounding them, and it’s all Even can do not to reach out and hold on to his arm to keep himself steady.

It’s not until the wiseman starts speaking that he manages to tear his eyes away. 

Even knows that he probably should pay attention; listen to the wiseman’s solemn words of peace and unity, of mutual trust and understanding – but all he can think of is the presence of Isak beside him. 

The knowledge that Isak isn’t here of his free will, but because of a choice Even made. A choice that ties their present and their futures together, whether he wants it or not.

Will they live their lives like this, close together? Or will their marriage be one of convenience and formality? Will they lead their separate existences in different rooms of that summer palace, live only within the same walls because they have to? Another sort of prison, but one that Even has doomed them to?

Would Isak start to hate him, then? Turn to others, as many do?

He knows that his mother and father should be standing somewhere in the front of the congregation before them, Isak’s parents as well, but he cannot make out their faces, everything around him blurry, frayed at the edges.

At one point, he notices how everything goes silent; it makes him turn toward the wiseman again, and that’s when he realizes that he’s expected to take Isak’s hands in his.

He knew, of course, that he was going to at some point during the ceremony, but still, he wasn’t prepared for the feeling of Isak’s palms against his. Warm, a little calloused.

Just like when they stroked all over his body, when Isak held on to his waist, his thighs, his wrists. This time, however, Isak’s hands don’t feel sure and steady like they did that night. This time, his grip is almost weak, and as Even tries to hold Isak’s hands tighter, he can feel them trembling.

As if Isak is just as nervous as he is.

Even looks up, tries to catch Isak’s gaze and tell him with his eyes that it’s fine, that they’ll have each other in this. That he doesn’t have to worry.

It isn’t easy, though, when he himself isn’t sure if it’s true.

Their eyes meet for a short second before Isak looks down at their joined hands, and Even does too.

His right in Isak’s left, Isak’s thumb against the back of his hand. Even can’t help that his heart beats faster when he sees the wiseman produce the ribbons from his coat and lay them across their hands before he starts tying them. An intricate braid of green, gold and blue, tight around the wrists, his pulse thrumming against the fabric. 

Grounding, and inescapable.

Even’s chest feels tight as he watches the wiseman tie the final knot on top of their fingers. This is it, it really is –

Now, Isak is bound to him for life. No matter if he wants to be or not.

* * *

Even doesn’t have the opportunity – or courage – to say a word to Isak as they walk down the aisle and the corridor to the banquet hall, Isak’s hand damp and warm in his. They’re surrounded by people all the time, no chance to say anything to him without anyone hearing. 

And, to be honest, he doesn’t have a clue what he should say even if he had the chance to do it.

They don’t speak during the course of the feast either; only lock eyes a few times when they toast at the end of each speech, and even then, it’s like Isak doesn’t see him, as if he’s looking beside Even, not at him.

His face is neither the stern warlord’s nor the tender lover’s, the one that Even has seen. The one he knows is there, behind Isak’s veiled eyes, his almost startled expression.

The feast seems endless, speeches blurring into one another, the music from the gallery above more like a faint buzz than an actual melody. 

There’s food set before them; fish from the rivers, pies, pigeon and meat and vegetables, and Even forces himself to eat. Tries not to soothe his nerves with too much wine, tries to keep himself collected for when he’ll be alone with Isak later.

He barely dares to think about what _that_ will be like. 

What in the world is Isak going to say to him?

Will they even sleep in the same bed? Will Isak let him? 

Will he let Even take off his clothes? Hold him and let Even touch him like husbands do?

In all honesty, he doesn’t dare to hope for more than that Isak will want to speak to him. 

The feast cannot end fast enough, and still, Even fears for it to be over. It’s like an eternity has passed when their plates are finally taken away and their parents stand up at their sides, proposing the final toast.

As the cheers die down and Even stands up beside Isak, his heart is beating so frantically that it almost drowns out the sound of Isak clearing his throat beside him. 

Holding on to the back of his chair, Even hears Isak thank everyone for attending, for the support of the future happiness and safety of their countries. Hears him express his gratitude to _everyone who made this possible,_ in a voice just as formal and toneless as when he greeted Even in the courtyard yesterday.

And then they’re holding hands again, Isak leading him out of the hall, the people following them cheering and clapping their hands. The sounds echoing in mockery as they walk down a long, wide gallery lined with windows on one side, suits of armour and torches on the other, a thick carpet under their feet. 

It’s not until they’ve ascended a set of stairs and continued down another corridor that Even starts to realize where they are. 

Only a swift walk down the corridor, and a turn to the right, and there they stand – the door to the room where he’d been held prisoner to the left, and Isak’s own door to their right. 

Like a memory from another life, another world.

The people surrounding them cheer as Isak opens the door to his chambers, and Even can hear them clap their hands behind them as he steps over the threshold and into Isak’s room. Takes in the paintings on the wall, the high windows, the moonlight falling across the room and over the bed.

And then Isak closes the door behind him, and everything goes silent.

When Even turns around to face him, it feels like moving through water. As if the air is so thick with expectation that it’s physically palpable.

Isak’s face looks white in the pale light from the windows, and he stands still, hands fisted by his sides, eyes large and wary. He opens his mouth and closes it before he looks to the side, his profile unreadable in the silvery light from the windows. 

Is he afraid? Disappointed? Angry?

“I –” Isak starts, voice toneless, gaze somewhere in the distance outside. “I’m sorry.” 

Whatever Even had expected him to say, it wasn’t this. 

“You’re sorry?”

“For this. Me. You, being back here.” Isak gestures to the room around them, still not meeting Even’s eyes.

“What – what do you mean?”

Isak casts a quick glance at him before he goes back to staring out the window.

“This – surely can’t be what you wanted, right? You were finally free, and now you’re – you’re stuck here again.”

“Stuck,” Even repeats, the word thick on his tongue. “I’m not –”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? How you hated that everyone else decided everything for you.” There’s tension in Isak’s voice now, making it thinner than Even’s ever heard it.

When Isak turns around and finally looks at him, it’s like he tries to close off his face, to square his jaw and obtain the cold, hard look of commander that Even saw him wear the very first time they met. 

Only now, it seems on its way to crumbling. It’s in the quiver of Isak’s lip, in his tentative gaze, in the tight lines at the corners of his eyes.

If Even had never met Isak before, he might have bought it. Only seen what Isak tries to project to him, but now – 

He grasps at the air around them, searching for the right words to cut through this hurt and fear that he knows lies behind this resentment.

“I – I know it might seem like I didn’t have a choice, but.” Even takes a small step forward. “I did.”

Now, it’s Isak’s turn to look at him in confusion. “What – what do you mean?”

“Do you really think that I’d rather face you on the battlefield than – than this? To perhaps be forced to take your life, rather than marry you?” 

There’s a flicker of regret on Isak’s face before his forehead scrunches up. “Of course I don’t.”

“Don’t you think I’d rather let you choose for yourself as well? Like I haven’t had enough regret that _I_ forced _you_ into this?”

Even can hear his own voice grow louder, feel the past months of regret and grief and longing and impossible choices that weren’t his to make build up inside, and he knows he shouldn’t let it lash out at Isak, but now that it’s started to pour out, he doesn’t know how to stop it. Isak stares at him, mouth half-open as if he’s about to say something, but Even beats him to it.

“Don’t you think it would have been easier to just keep quiet and not go to your father? Just let everything be, like I’ve done all my life? Let everyone else lead the way and just do what I was told?”

Isak’s eyes are large in the darkness. “You – this was _your_ idea?”

And just like that, it’s like all the air leaves Even, his anger deflating and dissolving into nothing. 

Of course Terje hasn’t told him. Why would he have? He probably just expected Isak to obey and follow. The way both Isak and he have been taught to do.

“I’m – I’m sorry.” Even lowers his voice again and lets his arm hang limply by his sides. “I know you didn’t ask for this, either. I just –”

_I didn’t know what else to do._

“But –” Even watches Isak’s brow furrow, and unfurl again. “You shouldn’t want this.”

And this is, Even realizes, where he has another choice. Where he can either tell part of the truth. Tell Isak that he didn’t have a choice, not really. That he did this out of some kind of attempt at nobility. To save both of their people from war and suffering. 

Or, he could say it like it is. Lay it out in the open for Isak to see. Draw the last drops of courage from his already wrought out chest and let Isak decide.

Even watches him, the dip below his cheekbones in shadows, his profile unnaturally sharp in the light falling in from the windows to their side. Swallows, and takes the jump.

“But I do.”

There’s something loosening in Isak’s whole demeanor as Even says it. The curl of his lip flattens out, and his eyes grow softer, like a weight falls from his shoulders, releasing him, making him take a small step forward, almost into Even’s space.

“You – you do?”

Even draws a deep breath. “Yes.”

“But I used you.” Isak’s voice is barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t move, just stands still, watching Even with big eyes. “You were my prisoner, and I wanted you, but I shouldn’t have. I was so sure you would have realized it by now, how – wrong it was of me, and that they’d forced you to – to come back here and tie yourself to me for life, without a choice –”

“But _I_ made that choice.” Even is itching to lift his hand up and put it on Isak’s cheek, to smooth that scared expression off his face, but it’s not right, not yet. _“I_ asked your father to let me marry you instead, because I – I wanted to.”

“Did you? Really?” Isak’s face is closer now, his cheeks darker. 

Even nods. “Yes.”

And then, Isak lifts one of his hands and takes Even’s in it. 

It’s trembling, a little damp with sweat, but Isak’s fingers do not stop until they’ve curled around his and hold still, with a soft sort of determination.

“Do you – do you know how many times I was on my way into your room after you had gone home?” Isak asks in a thin voice, eyes flickering down to where their hands are joined. “It was like there was this huge – void where you had been.”

Even swallows, wants to answer, but the words seem to be stuck somewhere between his heart and his mouth.

“Every day there was... something I wanted to tell you, or ask you about, or hear your opinion on, and you just weren’t – there.” There’s something thick in Isak’s words now, a frayed edge to his voice as he takes Even’s other hand as well. “And the longer you’d been gone, the more I started to doubt if – if it was true. If what we did – or had – if it had been… like I remembered it. If you’d really wanted me, like I wanted you, or – if it maybe just was a way for you to live through the days here.”

Even grabs his hands more tightly, pulse beating in his chest. 

“And then when I found out that you were going to marry Eva, I – I didn’t know what to do. That you’d be part of my family, but you wouldn’t be mine – it felt so awful, I wished so much that I could write to you, let you know that I had nothing to do with it –”

Isak takes a shuddering breath and licks his lips.

“And when my father came back here and told me that it had been decided that I was going to marry you instead. I – the first thing I felt was that I was so _happy._ It was like everything just – lit up – and then I just realized that this was maybe just – another sort of prison for you.”

Even can’t stand it any longer. He has to wipe that frown, that insecurity and sadness off of Isak’s face. 

He lets go of Isak’s hands and cradles Isak’s face between his own, fingertips resting at his temples. “No.”

“No?” 

Even clears his throat, shifts his weight between his feet, and steadies Isak’s face between his palms. 

“I,” he starts. “I’ve always known that I wouldn’t be allowed to choose who I’d marry. You know that as well as I do.”

There’s a flicker of something dark behind Isak’s eyes at that, something that prompts Even to take another, small step closer.

“And I used to dislike it, I did, but I – the thing is that I never thought I’d get to have – this.”

“Have what?” Isak’s voice is so low that Even barely hears it.

“Isak.” Even’s heart thumps quickly in his chest, makes him feel like _this_ is where he actually asks for his hand, instead of when he went to see Terje that rainy night in Vestvik. Where Even can ask him out of his own free will, and get an honest answer. “The thing is – if I could have chosen anyone–”

The last words trail out into the darkness as Even lifts one hand and lays it softly around Isak’s neck. This time, Isak meets his gaze, chin tilted up, stare soft and firm without a trace of hardness – only honesty, and something that looks so raw and hopeful that it tears at Even’s chest. 

“Do you really think you would have? Chosen – this? Me?” Isak’s voice is subdued, his mouth unsmiling.

The thing is, Even _could_ not have chosen anyone, and they both know it. He did make a choice, and it took all of his courage, but still, to anyone else, it could look like the only way out of an impossible stalemate.

Even can only hope that Isak believes him when he puts his forehead against his and whispers, “I really do.”

His heart beats fast in his chest when Isak lifts his hand – fingers trembling, but still moving up, up Even’s chest, along his collarbone, coming to rest around the column of his neck.

If everything about this day has felt unreal up to this point, as if everything has been happening alongside Even, this has to be the moment where it all gravitates to the centre. As if this is where the past months have led him, as if everything he’s hoped for and dreamed of has converged into this.

Into Isak’s hand at his hairline, into the warmth of his body against Even’s. Right where it’s supposed to be.

When their lips finally meet, it’s soft and tentative. As if Isak’s trying it out, searching for permission, some sort of evidence that he’s actually allowed to do this. A sign that Even wants this as much as he does.

Even wants to meet him just as gently; and at the same time, he wants to pour everything into this kiss. All the hopeless longing from the past few months, every sleepless night, all the days he's walked around with a hole in his chest. 

He tries to push the remnants of doubt and regret over what he thought he might be putting Isak through to the back of his head. Tries to hold Isak’s neck steady in his hand, wants to show him that there’s nothing to be sorry for, nothing to hide. That he doesn’t have to hesitate.

He opens his mouth a little, lets the tip of his tongue move tentatively against Isak’s lips. Feels his chest flood with relief when Isak meets him, slowly, a gentle brush of lips. Kisses him softly; perhaps softer than he’d expected – not with any haste, despite all of these months of longing. There’s a hunger somewhere in there, but the kiss is still more tender than desperate, more languid than impatient.

He closes his eyes when Isak pulls him into an embrace; leans their foreheads together and breathes on Isak’s parted lips. They’re here, they’re finally here. Back where it all started, and still all new.

“I can’t believe _you_ did this,” Isak whispers. “That you chose – this –”

Even pulls back a little, watches Isak’s parted lips, shiny and swollen, the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The gleam in the whites of his eyes, a little blank; a shade of disbelief on his face.

“I did,” he whispers back, swallows around the thickness that suddenly clogs up his throat. 

Isak keeps his hand locked around his neck, and closes his lips. Runs his other hand up Even’s arm, thumb against his wrist, Even’s pulse beating under his fingertip.

“Do you really want me, Even?” 

Isak’s voice is low, his face in shadows, and Even can feel a surge in the pit of his belly from how Isak’s eyes are suddenly darker. There’s something raw in there, something that Even knows he needs to acknowledge, to handle with care. 

“Do you?” Isak asks again, voice thick and thin at the same time, and Even turns his head and kisses the inside of his wrist, his palm, and then the corner of his mouth. 

“I want you,” he whispers on Isak’s lips. “So much. I’ve wanted you – every day since I left you –”

The hand around his neck grabs so tight it’s almost painful when Isak slips his tongue inside Even’s mouth, and he can feel the skin on his neck heat up. Suddenly, the night air has turned from chilly to fiery; shirt clinging onto his back.

All those months that Even’s dreamed of this – he needs to feel the warmth of Isak’s skin on his, Isak’s strong back under his palms, their bodies together. He strokes down Isak’s jaw, feels the pulse quicken deep in his groin as his fingers reach the buttons holding Isak’s jacket together.

“Can I? Please?” he asks into Isak’s mouth. 

Their lips rub against each other as Isak nods, and Even opens the buttons slowly, one by one, a tingle running down his spine as the thin fabric of Isak’s shirt brushes against his fingertips when he lifts the jacket off. His fingers tremble as he grabs at the shirt to release it from Isak’s trousers, Isak lifting his arms to let Even pull it over his head. Isak's chest comes into view for a second as he does; the scar above his clavicle, his small dark nipples pebbling in the night air.

Even has to touch him; lets his palm run over the ball of Isak’s shoulder, over his chest, down his side, counting his ribs. As his thumb slides over Isak’s hip bone, he can feel the skin there rise up in goosebumps, making the small hairs tickle at his fingers. It stirs something underneath his own skin, something that travels up his arms and down his back, that settles at the base of his spine. 

Slowly, he runs his hand along the waist of the trousers, Isak’s breaths quickening as Even dips his fingers under the waistline, eyelids drooping as Even opens the buttons at the front and pushes his trousers down.

And then, finally, all of Isak’s clothes are on the floor, and stands naked in front of Even.

He's every bit as lovely as Even remembers him.

His broad, hairless chest and flat, strong stomach, his arms hanging by his sides. His cock, thick and already half-hard for _him,_ and Even closes his eyes. Leans forward and puts his lips on Isak’s neck, feels the pulse there beat against his mouth, the warmth of Isak’s body bleeding through his clothes.

He runs his hands over Isak’s shoulders, his back, wants to let Isak feel just how wanted he is with every stroke, how beautiful and perfect. Kisses his neck, his ear, the soft curls at his temple before he pulls back a little.

Watches Isak’s gaze follow his hands as he opens his jacket and shirt and unties his trousers, the look on Isak’s face both so soft and so hungry that it makes Even’s spine prickle.

“Even,” Isak says, and lifts his hands to Even’s face before he leans forward and breathes into his hair. “Take me to bed.”

His words make Even’s head spin with lust and longing and relief, over the fact that this is Isak, his _husband,_ warm and alive in his arms, wanting him.

“Come,” Even whispers, and places his hands on Isak’s shoulders, walks him backwards toward the bed. 

When the back of Even’s legs hit the bed and he sits down on the edge of it, Isak remains standing, his whole body on full display for Even to take in.

As many times as Even’s envisioned Isak’s body in the last few months – hovering over him in the golden afternoon light, lying beside him in the dusk – the memories still don’t do him justice.

His lean shoulders, a little thinner than the last time, but still strong. His flat stomach, the fuzzy hair leading down from his navel a dark shadow in the light from the fireplace. His slender wrists and fingers, his strong arms, and Even can’t wait for him to put them around him again, for Isak to surround him in his embrace.

Even can’t remember wanting anyone like this before. Sure, he’s fancied other people, many times, liked to put his hands on them, enjoyed them touching him. But there’s just something different, something _more_ to the way he’s aching to have Isak close. 

As if this is where they were supposed to end up all along. As if Isak’s skin draws him in like a force of some kind, something that isn’t a question or an option, just as natural as breathing or existing.

As if Even’s hands come up to rest on his hips by themselves; as if leaning into Isak’s stomach and nuzzling his nose into the warm skin above Isak’s navel is the only thing Even can do.

Isak smells of that familiar soap, a little sweat, and underneath it, a scent that he recognizes as Isak’s own. Something that Even hasn’t felt since that last day and night they’d spent together, in bed, just touching and holding each other, not knowing if they’d meet again.

This time, Even isn’t letting go.

He digs his thumbs harder into the soft flesh of Isak’s lower stomach, hears him draw a sharp breath as he moves his hands up into Even’s hair. 

Despite the warmth from the fireplace, Even can feel Isak shiver as he slips his hands around Isak’s back, embracing him. Feels the fingers in his hair curl more tightly as Isak grows harder against his chest.

Part of Even just wants to sit like this forever. Hold Isak tight, with closed eyes, and feel the beating of his pulse in his stomach, pebbled skin sliding against Even’s cheek with his every shallow breath. 

Just them, together. Finally.

Another part, however, can’t wait to pull Isak down onto the bed. Touch every part of him, show Isak just how much he wants him, give him everything and make him come with Even’s name on his lips.

He turns his head, kisses the arch of Isak’s ribs and, hands on his hips, looks up at him.

Isak’s eyes gleam down at him, his lips swollen from kissing, shiny and parted. His thumb rests behind Even’s ear, and he stands still, as if he’s waiting. Searching for permission, or perhaps some sort of sign.

There’s a shade of apprehension still lingering on Isak’s face; a dark crease between his eyebrows, and there’s nothing Even wants more than to smooth it out, let Isak just know much he’s longed for this.

That everything he's said is true.

He keeps their eyes locked as he kisses Isak’s stomach with soft lips. Hears Isak draw a quick breath as Even lifts his hand and carefully wraps it around his cock.

Isak doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching him with those dark eyes, but Even doesn’t miss how his breathing turns heavier, or how the fingers in his hair press a little more firmly. Or how his eyelids droop slightly as Even starts moving his hand up and down. 

Even could, without a doubt, sit here and admire Isak like this for hours. Feel his body go slack with pleasure and watch his face while Even makes him come with his hand.

But tonight, it isn’t enough. 

Tonight, he needs Isak as close as he can get.

“Do you – want to lie down?”

Even whispers it on his skin, and sees a faint smile on Isak’s lips when he nods. He follows when Even scoots up the bed, climbs up over Even and puts his hands on each side of his head. 

Something hot runs down Even’s spine as he sees Isak’s gaze flitter between Even’s eyes and his lips, down his chest and up again. As if Isak sees right into him, sees all the guilt and twisted thoughts and bad decisions, examines them and turns them around, and still chooses to stay.

As if he sees Even for who he really is, behind all the attire and titles and everything that has happened since they last lay like this.

Even lifts one hand to Isak’s cheek, rests his thumb at the corner of his mouth. Thinks about how Isak took care of him that night, attentive to his every move and sound. How he gave Even exactly what he needed.

Something warm and large blooms in his chest at the memory, of Isak poised above him just like this, inside of him, wild-eyed and strong.

Part of him wants exactly that again. Wants to lie back and let Isak lead the way. Take him like this, show Even that he is _his._

And at the same time, he wants to give it back. To assure Isak that this is it, that it's right; that despite every hindrance in their way, everything that standing against them, they’re here. Together at last, where they're supposed to be.

He swallows, and then lifts one leg, hooks it over Isak’s hip and flips them over.

Looks down at Isak, watches the surprise on his face as he’s suddenly on his back, hair like a golden halo on the bedspread, cheeks rosy in the dusk, the scar on his cheek a stark contrast to his almost ethereal appearance.

Isak’s breath tickles his lips as Even leans down, the tips of their noses touching, so close that Isak’s eyes turn into a dark blur. Even lowers the rest of his body down to cover him, lets his weight align with Isak’s body, from their calves to their chests. Their hips flush together, pulse quickening in Even’s stomach as he feels how hard they are against each other.

Then, he can hear Isak swallow, lips parting again with a soft sound before he draws a quick, shallow breath.

“I still can’t believe this – that it’s true.” Isak’s voice is thin, frail with wonder, only a shadow of the decisive commander’s tone.

Even leans his weight on his elbows, lifts his head just enough to see the sharp outline of Isak’s lips, his half-open mouth, waiting.

“It is,” he whispers, and kisses Isak on the mouth. Deep and slow and unyielding, in a way that he hopes leaves no room for doubt or second thoughts. 

It takes a few seconds for Isak to respond, his tongue careful and soft against Even’s. Soon, however, Isak’s hands come up around his arms, clasping tighter as his kisses turn more insistent, tongue pushing into Even’s mouth. 

Even tilts his head to kiss him deeper, rewarded with a quiet whimper as Isak’s fingers dig into his shoulders. He presses his hips down against Isak’s, just to try it out, and his chest floods with anticipation when Isak moans and bucks up into him. 

“Please make love to me,” Isak says into his mouth, sudden and breathless. “I’ve dreamt about it every day – since you left – please –”

The heat in Even’s stomach shoots up his spine and all the way to his neck, a want so fierce that it makes his throat knot up. He sucks on Isak’s upper lip, runs his hand along his side, down to Isak’s hip, his thigh, and squeezes it. Spreads Isak’s legs apart with his knees, makes place for himself between them, the sweat building on their bodies easing the slide.

Isak’s breath is hot on his lips as Even runs his thumb up the inside of his thigh, a soft whine somewhere in his throat.

“Please,” Isak whispers again. “In the bedside cabinet.”

Even lifts himself up for a second. Watches Isak’s red, bitten lips, the gap between his teeth. How his hair has started to curl at his temples. The barely-there stubble on his jaw.

Sees him swallow, as if he’s about to say something else, but doesn’t.

He puts his hand on Isak’s cheek, feels the warm skin against his palm.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, an echo of Isak’s reassurance in the room across the hall months ago. “I will – I want to. So much.”

A blush spreads over Isak’s neck as he turns his head to kiss Even’s palm, a silent _thank you,_ and Even’s chest fills with warmth over the the fact that Isak dares to ask this of him. That he lays himself bare for Even and lets him see, lets him touch and take, trusts him enough for this.

He strokes his thumb along Isak’s lip and watches his eyes flutter closed, the soft thin skin almost translucent against the pad of his finger, only a thin veil between them.

Isak’s body heat lingers on his skin when he pulls himself away and slips off the bed to reach the cabinet, pulls out the drawer and sees the only half-full jar of oil. 

He won’t ask about it, not now, just dips his fingers in and crawls back up to Isak who lies back with his legs spread, following Even’s movements with dark eyes.

Even has to bite his lip to keep the foreign feeling from earlier to crawl back in. It’s almost unreal – Isak, laid out for him like this, waiting for him, for what Even’s hardly dared to dream about since he rode out from this castle months ago.

“You don’t have to do much –” Isak says as Even lies down beside him, fingers sliding in between his legs. “I mean, I –”

Even sees the blush spread from Isak’s neck and up to his cheeks as he licks his lips.

“– I didn’t count on – this, but I hoped, so this morning, I –”

The last words come out short and breathy as Even presses his fingertips against him, a tight but easy slide in, and his stomach feels like it’s set on fire. With the warm, slick heat of Isak around him, the knowledge that Isak’s been hoping, preparing for this. Isak thinking about him, opening himself for him, on this bed –

He bends down and kisses Isak again, and this time it isn’t slow or tentative at all – it’s heat and tongue and open mouths from the start, Isak’s hand a curled fist in his hair as Even slips his fingers all the way inside of him. Welcoming, a perfect fit.

As if Even belongs there.

He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to focus on Isak’s breath on his lips, of their chests heaving against each other. On his own grip on Isak’s shoulder, holding him steady as he moves his fingers in and out. 

As he curls them a little, Isak inhales sharply and shudders underneath his grip.

“Please,” Isak breathes again, and this time Even doesn’t hesitate. Rolls up on top of Isak, blanketing him with what he hopes feels like a safe weight. 

And, in another mirroring of their first time, Even kisses his cheek and whispers, “Shh. I’ll take care of you.” 

Isak sighs as Even pulls his fingers out, sliding them up his leg and grabbing hold of his thigh, angling it out to the side. 

The red gleam from the fireplace makes Isak’s body look like it’s almost glowing: the sweat on his chest glimmering, the dips between the muscles on his arms in shadows as he holds on to Even’s upper arm. His grip tightens when Even starts to press inside; nails digging into his shoulder, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Are you good?” Even whispers. The words come out rough and coarse, but Isak nods.

“Yes,” Isak breathes. “More – Even –”

Isak’s eyes fall shut when Even slowly sinks in all the way, Isak’s leg slick with sweat and oil under his palm. He keeps a close eye on Isak’s face during, on his half-open mouth, his heavy eyelids.

Waits for a second, breathes, curls his toes not to start moving before Isak’s ready. Feels Isak’s fingers go slack and release his arm before his forehead smooths out.

Then, the corners of his mouth soften into a smile that looks so blissful that both Even’s heart and mind stop.

It makes him think of the first time he saw Isak smile, sitting in the room across the hall. How the fine lines had made his eyes turn gentle and his whole face light up, and how it had made Even’s own heart swell in his chest.

The delight spreading over Isak’s face right now is different, though; serene, almost enraptured, his strong arms lying slack on the bed beside his head, body spread out and undone.

Even could look at this every day for the rest of his life and never tire of it.

He can feel a lump building in his throat from how much he wants Isak to believe it. From all the nights Isak must have lain in this bed, alone, thinking that he’d taken advantage of Even, questioning what they’d shared.

Even can feel it itch at the corner of his mind, threatening to take him out of the moment, and he presses it down – tightens his grip on Isak’s thigh instead, bends forward a little, pushes deeper, making Isak’s mouth fall open with a quiet gasp.

“I want you so much,” Even whispers and kisses the scar above Isak’s clavicle, the dip of his throat, his jaw. 

There are other words itching in his throat, words he’s only been thinking, floating just below the surface, but not ready for saying out loud. Not yet. 

He kisses them onto Isak’s neck instead, moves his hips and sinks further into him, the skin on his throat vibrating under Even’s lips as he moans and lets Even press his leg up against his stomach. 

Isak’s eyelids flutter as Even does it again – pulls almost all the way out, slow, and then in again, a little faster. It’s tight, but so warm and accommodating. Perfect.

“Even,” Isak gasps, and then he opens his eyes and looks up at him, gaze dark and glazed over. 

The marvel in Isak's gaze makes Even want to trace Isak’s eyebrow with his fingers, pull at his lip and make him feel how real this is – but his hands are busy holding Isak’s leg up, supporting his own weight.

Even leans down to kiss him instead, and Isak grabs his neck and holds him there, presses his thumb into the soft skin below Even’s ear. His other hand claws at Even’s shoulder blades, and he slings a leg around Even’s lower back, clutches at Even with his limbs, as if he’s trying to pull all of him inside.

As if he’s so starved for Even’s touch that he can’t contain it, and it tugs at something raw rooted inside of Even. Makes him want to give Isak everything.

He kisses Isak back with fervor, tries to comply and push deeper, harder, but doesn’t really manage in this position – and there’s no space between them to wrap his hand around Isak and bring him over the edge.

“Just lie back,” he whispers into Isak’s mouth. "I've got you."

Isak’s hand lingers in his hair, as if he’s reluctant to let go when Even lifts himself up and sits back on his knees. Still buried deep inside him, hand pressing Isak’s leg to his stomach.

And as Even looks down at Isak’s body spread out underneath him, he feels his mouth go dry.

The sweat glistening on Isak's strong, firm chest; pulse beating underneath the damp skin on his stomach. His hard cock, thick and flush up against his navel, the coarse dark hairs at the base. How he’s stretched around Even, legs spread apart, letting Even see everything.

“Even,” Isak says again, strangled and hoarse, and Even grabs hold of his other leg as well, lifting it up, caressing the side of Isak’s knee with his thumb. 

Isak looks up at him, biting his lip, and lifts his hips up against Even in a silent _come on._

The hoarse, loud moan that spills out of him when Even pushes as deep inside him as he can sounds so raw that Even’s chest feels like it’s going to tear. So unshielded and naked, and he can’t fathom that Isak dares to trust him this way, to take charge, take care of him.

And there’s a new kind of intimacy to watching Isak like this – even if Even can’t have his lips on him, he can see everything. Isak’s stretched out neck, one hand in his own hair, the other lying flat beside his head on the bedspread. His face, turned to the side, open-mouthed pants on the thin skin of his upper arm. 

With every thrust inside, he can feel Isak start to push back against him, sees his eyebrows knot together, and Even knows that he’s close. Recognizes that feeling of not fitting inside your own skin, that need for faster, harder, _more._

And he doesn’t want to deny Isak anything.

He releases the press on one of Isak’s legs, lifts it up onto his shoulder and leans down. Close enough to run a hand along his side, Isak’s hip a sharp ridge under his palm, the junction between his thigh and stomach a perfect dip for his fingers.

For every push inside, Isak’s stomach contracts, strong and lean and smooth, his hard cock straining up against it. Isak’s moans stop for a second as Even slides his hand up along it, and then makes a drawn-out sound that’s somewhere between and moan and a whine.

It’s such a perfect fit in his hand, hard and silky and wet. Just like Even fits perfectly inside of Isak, and he tries to move his hand and his hips at the same pace, wants Isak to feel the same sense of unity, of fulfillment.

The way Isak’s eyes scrunch up tells Even that he's doing it right. His hoarse pants, the way Isak's hips buck up against him, the pearls of sweat forming on his chest – it makes something hot well up in the pit of Even’s stomach, something that pulls at his lower back and eggs him on, pushes him forward, deeper, harder. A desperation reflected on Isak’s face, in his movements, and Even bites his lip to it, tenses his thighs to not slam into Isak and end it too soon.

And then, Isak turns his face up and opens his eyes.

Looks straight at Even, gaze black and green, soft but demanding, bottomless. He stretches out his arm and grabs on to Evens hip, mouth open and wanting, as if he wants to say something but can’t. As if he’s so close to the edge and stretched so thin that he can't find the words.

But Even gets it; tightens his grip around him, moves his hand faster, the wetness at the tip leaking onto his fingers. Spreads Isak’s legs with his other hand to sink as deep as he can, tries to angle his hips just right.

“Even,” Isak breathes, eyes wide as he gives out a breathy whine. 

Even can feel Isak’s thigh trembling underneath his palm; works the hand around his cock faster and slams into him harder, until Isak suddenly clenches around him and starts coming all over his own stomach, paints the soft brown hairs and the smooth skin white, stretching his neck as he moans loudly, hands flying up to his own hair as Even holds his leg down to keep him from shaking. 

The sudden tightness, the heat and the sight of Isak’s chest glistening with sweat and come, of Isak coming with Even still inside of him, of Isak stretched around him, spreads warmth through Even like a wave, rising up from behind his back and then suddenly rushing over him, impossible to hold off.

He doesn’t know for how long he comes, only that he starts before Isak’s finished. For a short while, he loses track of time and where he is – only feels the pleasure overtake him, a surge in his belly spreading to his legs and up his spine, pulse beating so loudly in his ears that it drowns everything else out.

When it ebbs out at last, he somehow finds his way down to lie on top of Isak, hands on either side of Isak’s arms, nose in the crook of his neck, still inside of him, their bodies sticky and hot, Isak’s pulse warm and alive against his cheek.

“Even,” Isak says into thin air, voice hoarse and gravelly, “This – you – Even.”

Head void of words, Even hums into the damp skin of Isak’s neck, legs slumped between Isak’s, heavy and stiff. “Mm.”

“I – I didn’t know it could feel like this.” Isak’s voice is breathless, almost disbelieving.

“Me neither.” Even finds his hand and intertwines their fingers, presses their palms together. Smiles against Isak’s hairline, moving his hand down to Isak’s shoulder and squeezing. “I’ve missed you so much.”

It comes out suddenly, spilling out of his mouth without warning, but Isak only cards his fingers through his hair and kisses his forehead.

“Me too,” Isak whispers. “So much.”

Even lifts his head, puts his weight on one elbow as he looks into Isak’s eyes, the fine lines at the corners barely visible in the dark. “Are you good? I didn’t –”

“I’m fine.” One corner of Isak’s mouth lifts up, a relaxed, almost amused smile that Even didn’t know how much he’d missed until now. “But you could pull out of me now, you know.”

Even smiles back before he complies, body barely cooperating as he slides own Isak’s body and out of him. A crease appears on Isak’s forehead, and Even lies down beside him, traces it with his finger, all the way down to his eyebrow until it smooths out.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he whispers, thumb following the dark line of Isak’s eyebrow out to his temple.

Isak lies still, watching him, hair dark and damp at the roots, curling above his ears. “Me neither. I still – I still can’t believe you did this.”

Even bites his lip, tries not to smile too wide but can’t refrain from teasing him a little. “This?”

He gestures down to their stomachs, smeared with Isak’s come, with sweat and oil, and can’t help the delight flooding him as Isak’s mouth falls open and his eyes go wide. 

“I’m sorry,” Even says next, doing his best to hide his laugh in Isak’s shoulder. 

“Fool.” Isak pushes at his upper arm, but it’s without heat, and he leaves his hand lying there.

Even looks up again. Watches Isak’s pursed lips, his mock-stern expression. Lifts his hand to his cheek, and scratches his fingers in the hair behind his ear.

“I did,” he says, keeping the teasing tone out of his voice this time.

Isak’s grip on his arm tightens. 

“You won’t have heirs,” he says, matter-of-factly, suddenly unsmiling.

As if he’s stating the obvious; that it’s a cold day, or that it’s time to go get breakfast.

“Do you think I care?” Even says in a low voice, slinging a leg over Isak’s hips. 

“I don’t know.” Isak watches him intently, biting his lip. “Do you?”

"Isak." Even lays his hand on his cheek, thumb on his cheekbone, and looks him straight in the eye. “I want you, and I’ll take anything that comes with it. Anything.”

“Do you really mean that?” Isak’s gaze is dark again, mouth unsmiling, the scar on his cheek a shadow. ”You don’t know everything about me.”

“I don’t.” Even agrees. “But –”

He swallows. Watches the warm light from the fireplace flicker over Isak’s face, his shoulder. Moves his hand to his neck and tries to keep the grip steady. “I know enough about you to be sure that – that I can’t wait to find out about the rest. You’re so kind, and lovable, and easy to talk to, like… like you understand me. Like – like no one else has.”

Isak doesn’t say anything to that, just watches him with open eyes. For a short while, it looks like he’s going to object, mouth opening and then closing. Then, he swallows, the click of his throat a soft sound in the silence of the room.

“I – me too,” Isak says eventually, voice thicker.

The muscles in Isak’s neck tense up, then go slack as Even pulls him closer, so close that the tips of their noses touch. Isak’s face a blur before his eyes, the knobs of his spine under Even’s palm as uncharted as familiar as Isak sighs into his mouth and kisses him again.

Even if the sweat has started to cool on their skin, even if they should wash themselves off and crawl under the covers, they don’t have to. This time, finally, there’s no limit to their kisses. 

This time, they can lie here for as long as they want to. Map out all the corners of their bodies that haven’t yet touched. Talk about everything that's passed, and about nothing. Get to know each other, without having to hide.

Safe in the knowledge that even if anything can happen, even if they don’t know what the future holds, they'll face it together.

This time, they do have all the time in the world.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. YOU GUYS!!!! I can't believe we're here, at the final chapter aka the Epilogue!
> 
> I cannot express enough what a wonderful, wonderful journey it's been to post this fic. I have gotten so many incredibly thoughtful, funny and emotional comments from so many of you, and I hope you all know that I've been reading and re-reading them all MANY times. The response to this fic has been absolutely amazing and I feel so blessed having such lovely, lovely readers.  
> THANK YOU ALL. SO MUCH!!!   
> ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜💖
> 
> I also really want to thank the absolutely amazing people who've helped me by reading through this fic, listening to me whine about it, helping me through when I started to doubt the whole thing and just being generally awesome: Ghostcat, colazitron, and Treehouse. You're the best ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Can't deny I feel a bit emotional over the fact that this is the last Wednesday I'll be posting from this universe *sob* I'm really gonna miss this fic A LOT. I'm so incredibly touched that so many of you have liked it so much!  
> Anyhow, I'm not gonna stall your reading any longer. So – I hope you enjoy this epilogue!

Something is different about the wind today.

Isak can feel it as soon as he steps outside; an unfamiliar tone to the crisp, light breeze, smelling of mould and dirt and pine trees. Something he vaguely recognizes but can’t put his finger on.

His legs feel a little jittery as he descends the steps from the upper halls – he’s been sitting still for a good two hours, planning the rebuilding of the small dining hall into a library with the new wiseman apprentice. 

They really need somewhere to store all their books.

Right now, they’re mostly lying in heaps around their chambers; on the tables and shelves and even stacked on top of each other on the floor in a corner or two. 

And, of course, beside their bed.

Isak smiles to himself at the thought, and lifts his gaze to see the treetops outside the castle walls sway lightly in the wind. The sun’s already halfway up, rays warm on his face as he makes his way down to the east gallery, heading for the centre of the palace.

When he reaches the top of the staircase leading down to the gardens, he stops for a second.

Everything is still in early spring attire – light green grass covering the lawns stretching between the bushes and the flowerbeds, overgrown with daffodils and scillas. A sea of green and yellow and blue, and in its midst, a heap of freshly dug-up dirt beside a small pit.

And, standing beside it, leaning on his spade, Even.

His husband.

As tall and lanky as the first time Isak saw him – his cheeks a blushy red, his hair in disarray, and his shirt clings a little to his back with sweat. Jacket thrown on the grass beside him, he strokes a lock of hair from his forehead before he lifts his face to say something to the woman standing in front of him.

His sister.

Eva stands straight-backed and clad in full riding gear, leather hose and tunic, a short sword hanging by her side. Her hair is pulled up in a long, thick auburn braid, and as she cocks her head to the side and says something to Even, he throws his head back and laughs.

A sonorous, delighted laugh that reaches all the way up to where Isak is standing, and his chest fills with warmth at the sound. At the sight of Even like this; happy and carefree, in his informal clothes. In their  _ home. _

_ Their own home. _

Isak still cannot believe it’s true. They actually do live here,  _ together,  _ like he dreamed of for so long, but never dared believe in. Not for real.

He almost laughs to himself as he thinks of where he was a year ago.

At the head of the army moving slowly across the Western plains, close to the pass where their spies have told them the Vestvik army was on its way. Not having the slightest idea how his life was about to be turned upside down.

In reality it wasn’t very far from here, but it might as well be hundreds and thousands of leagues away. In a different universe, even.

The moment he’d turned around in that tent and met Even’s eyes, he’d just known. Nothing would ever be the same again. 

He had no idea how; just that there was  _ something _ about the captured enemy prince that was completely unavoidable. Something Isak would never be free of, however hard he’d try.

And he had no idea what to do about it.

The only thing he could think of right then was to make sure that Even was kept alive. Coincidentally, he’d also pleased his father by giving him the most valuable hostage he’d ever laid his hands on – and pleasing his father always held the highest importance for Isak.

Until then.

During the following weeks there had been nothing churning in Isak’s head other than thoughts of the beautiful, foreign prince in the dungeons down below – and how Isak absolutely needed to get him out of there.

Not only had the sight of Even lying helpless, asleep and alone on the stone cold cell floor, been unbearable. But all the nights Isak stood there, watching him through the little window in the cell door, listening for footsteps down the corridor, ready with his sword –

After three consecutive nights of attacks, of men creeping around the corners with their knives, of Isak cutting them down as quickly and silently as he could, he’d known that it was time.

Time to bring Even somewhere safe, a place where none of the counsellors’ underlings could find him. 

Somewhere closer to Isak.

He never dared dream of anything more than keeping Even safe, no matter how lovely he’d looked. It was just – just appearances, anyway.

And then, Isak had gotten to know him.

He should have known already by then that he was playing a losing game. All the hours they spent in that room across the hall, talking, laughing; Even’s compassion, his warmth, his humor and intelligence – 

Isak was lost. Completely lost, free falling into the unknown, with nothing to hold on to.

And with absolutely no hope of ever being able to do anything about it.

Not only was Even his forever sworn enemy, but also his captive. Completely at Isak’s mercy. If Isak cared about him so much; how could he ever subject Even to any advances? What if Even had felt forced to comply? 

No. He’d settled for trying his best to set Even free; to aid his father in the negotiations. 

Doing what he could to make it possible for Even to live his life. As he should. 

And, until Even could ride away to freedom: make him as comfortable as he only could. 

Then, that night in the garden happened – and there was absolutely nothing left for Isak but surrender.

If he thought he’d be able to recover before that, to turn away and refrain from loving Even, that was the moment he knew he was wrong.

After that night, there was no turning back.

No matter how much he  _ knew _ that nothing good could come from it; that the only way their time together could end was in loss, he’d let himself go. Let himself have that night, and the night after; ignoring the lump in his throat and falling into Even, into his arms, his body, his kind and untarnished, loving heart.

Isak doesn’t want to think about the weeks after that. 

Pushing down his feelings, playing the role of the ruthless warrior and prince, keeping a straight face. Pretending in front of everyone that what Even and him had never existed. 

Including Even.

Putting up that kind of facade had never been a foreign thing to Isak, not after years and years of war and at court – but looking into Even’s eyes and turning away from him as if he didn’t know him had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He doesn’t want to think about the way his chest felt like an abyss as he saw Even ride out the gate. How he felt the tears burn behind his eyelids as he half-walked, half-ran up the stairs to his room, falling into Even’s bed and burying his face in the pillows. How the sheets were still crumpled, smelling of him, but apart from that completely void of evidence that Even had ever been there.

And, worst of all, the horrible, pitch-black weeks that followed, culminating in the moment where his father announced Eva’s and Even’s engagement.

Isak still doesn’t know how he lived through the days after that.

There had still been so many things, so many firsts that he wished they would have gotten to experience together. So many days and nights he could have spent with Even, instead of lying alone in his bed with a tight chest and wet cheeks, seeing only hopelessness and dread in front of him. 

But, looking down at Even like this, it all fades into the distance. 

All he sees right now is Even, and how  _ alive _ he looks in the middle of their awakening garden; an almost dream-like picture of hope, of promises and new beginnings. 

A home, only for them.

The smell of dirt and spring and that indefinable  _ something _ surrounds him as he descends the stairs and takes the final steps toward his husband and sister.

As Even looks up and spots him, Isak sees his face break out in a smile – that warm, open smile that makes his eyes crinkle up like half-moons, a smile that Isak almost – but only almost – has started getting used to seeing on him. 

So many miles from the scared, wide-eyed stare from the first time they met.

“Good morning,” Even says, eyes sparkling as he tilts his head to the side.

As if they hadn’t already said good morning in the most pleasing way already, hours ago, in their bed.

“Husband.” Isak steps up to wrap his hand around Even’s neck and pull him in for a kiss – maybe a longer one than is appropriate, considering that his sister is standing only a few feet away – but, honestly, how is Isak supposed to  _ not _ , when Even stands here looking like that?

“Good morning to you too,” Eva says pointedly, a fond tease in her voice, making Isak reluctantly pull away from Even and direct his gaze at her.

“Princess.“ He keeps his hand around Even’s waist as he smiles at her, and nods. “On your way home?”

“I am.” Eva gives him an amused grin. “Just wanted to make sure you’d take proper care of my wedding present first.”

She nods to the rose bush beside them, planted in the freshly dug pit.

_ “Belated _ wedding present,” Isak points out. 

Eva laughs at that, a bright, colorful laugh that makes her eyes light up and her cheeks turn a little red. “Well. I haven’t heard any complaints from you until now about me missing your wedding.”

It’s so freeing, after all these months apart, to be able to slide back into the easy banter he’s always had with her. 

How he’s missed her. 

“It  _ would _ have been nice to have you there, you know. But –”

“Don’t worry, brother,” Eva says, taking a step forward to squeeze his arm with a gloved hand. “I’d rather see you like this. Here.”

As she embraces him, Isak can feel a familiar warmth fill his chest. 

They never talked about why Eva was suddenly gone the morning after their father had announced her engagement. Isak still doesn’t know if she’d understood the anguish that must have shown on his face, or if she’d escaped solely for her own sake. 

It doesn’t matter anymore. Not really.

“Well,” Eva says as they’ve pulled apart. “I’d better be leaving. That army won’t train itself, as you know.”

“I do.” Isak bites his lip in a smile before he clears his throat a little. “If – if you want to say goodbye, I think Jonas is in the stables.”

“Oh. I know he is.” Eva grins, eyes glittering as she cocks her head to the side. “Well,  _ husbands.  _ I’ll leave you to it. See you at the gates in a bit?”

And with that she’s up the stairs with a few long, swift steps, long braid dancing across her back.

Isak watches her disappear into the gallery up above before he turns to Even. Lays his hands around Even’s upper arms, thumbs resting in the dips between his long muscles. 

Stronger than the first time Isak touched him, no longer thinned from weeks of captivity – instead bearing the evidence of their shared life here. Of the work they’ve been doing to form this palace into their home, of nights of peaceful sleep in each other’s arms, of long rides in the woods and of working in the gardens.

From the first moment Isak laid his eyes on Even, he thought him the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, but like this – smiling, flushed, a little sweaty, he looks almost otherworldly. Like someone out of a dream.

And, most of all, he looks  _ happy. _

Happy to be here, with Isak. With  _ him. _

“Mm,” Even says, wrapping his arms around Isak and pulling him in. “Morning. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Isak says, tipping his chin up to meet Even in another kiss. 

A longer one, one that melts into opening mouths and a hand on Isak’s cheek and Isak’s hand in Even’s hair. One that ends in sighs and swollen lips, Even’s eyes a shade darker when they pull apart.

There’s nothing Isak loves more than kissing Even like this. Out in the open, where anyone can see, with the sun on their faces and the wind in their hair. 

It’s taken some time to get used to. 

After their wedding, Isak had had a difficult time wrapping his head around the fact that Even actually  _ wanted _ him. That what he’d told himself over the past few months hadn’t been true; that Even still desired him despite everything. 

Second, well – Isak isn’t sure how much affection two newlywed husbands who supposedly never met before their wedding day should show each other – but he’s quite sure it did not correspond to his desire to touch and hold and kiss Even, every minute of every day.

He’ll never forget the first kiss they’d shared outside of Bergheim; behind a tree in a small grove during the first stop they made when making the journey to their new home.

Away from the guards and the servants accompanying them, and in full traveling gear, leathers and furs, but still.

Now that he’s allowed to, Isak takes every opportunity he can to kiss Even, to sneak his arm around his waist, to press his lips into his hair as he passes him at the breakfast table. 

Just because he can.

But, occasionally, also because of a lingering feeling that he by now knows isn’t true, but that sometimes creeps up nonetheless.

The notion that this happiness, this – this overwhelming sense of safety and belonging is too good to be true. He still doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, to deserve someone like Even. 

And, in his darkest moments, there’s the fear that all this could be ripped away from him at any time.

He does his best not to dwell on it, but it still comes to him sometimes.

Just like the dreams sometimes do; the ones where he wakes up sweating, convinced that he’s back in Bergheim, overcome with fear that someone has finally found out where he’s hid Even, that they’ll take him away to behead him.

Now, however, he doesn’t wake to an empty bed.

Now, he just has to stretch out his hand to feel Even’s warmth beside him, only has to touch Even with his fingertips to make him roll over in his sleep and wrap himself around Isak instinctively.

“What do you want to do today?” Even asks, stroking a thumb along Isak’s jaw. 

“I thought maybe we could go for a ride in the woods after we’ve seen Eva off. If you want to.”

“I’d love to.” There’s a playful glitter in the corner of Even’s eye as he nods, lifting his eyebrow with a wry smile. “Maybe we’ll finally come across a bear and I’ll get to see you wrestle it down.”

“I can’t believe you thought that was true.” Isak can’t help the grin spreading over his face. 

Even’s eyes soften as he puts a hand on Isak’s cheek. “Well. Lucky thing not all the tales about you were true.”

Isak smiles back before he leans his face into Even’s palm, warm and big against his cheek; a little more calloused than the first time Isak felt it on his body, but just as safe and welcoming. Smelling of earth and grass, of the soap they both use, of Even’s warm skin.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears a bird cry out – a foreign, high-pitched screech; and suddenly, he realizes:  _ that’s  _ what was different with the wind before. Not a scent, but a sound. 

It’s a shrill sound, not beautiful at any rate – but it still echoes of something promising, exciting.

“What is that?” he asks Even.

Even’s thumb strokes his jaw absent-mindedly, eyes darting between Isak’s. “Hm?”

“That bird. I – I don’t remember where I heard it before.”

“That?” Even smiles and raises his eyebrows, nodding up to the sky. “The seagulls?”

“Is that what it is?”

“I keep forgetting you’ve only been to the ocean once,” Even says, and for a moment his eyes turn a shade darker. “I –”

“We’ll go there again soon.” Isak lifts his hands to cup Even’s face. “Together.”

“Together.” 

As Even turns his face to kiss Isak’s palm, Isak can feel a tingle of anticipation run up his arm and down his spine. Not only for when they’ll be alone in their room later and Even can kiss him like that in other places, but also for everything else that awaits them. All the days ahead of them, everything they still have left to learn. About each other, the world, about everything significant as well as small.

Never mind everything they’ve missed, everything they’ll never have back, all the years they spent fearing and hating each other.

What matters is all that lies ahead, and that they’ll never have to face any of it alone. Not anymore.

That whatever lies in store for them, they’ll go through it hand in hand.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this sappy little glimpse into Isak's head!  
> Thank you all so, so much for joining me on this ride, you're the best readers there are and I love you all *crying hearteyes emoji* (if there isn't one I just made one up)  
> Anyway, come talk to me on [Tumblr](https://irazor.tumblr.com) about anything and everything if you like, I'll see you there!
> 
> ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little nervous and very excited to hear what you all think of this fic – feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](https://irazor.tumblr.com)!


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